The Adventures of Italian-American Man

Toilet Humor

2007-06-23T23:30:00.002-05:00

So I was in the Sovereign Center to see a boxing match a few weeks ago. I had never been there before, and found the place oddly disorienting as I tried to take in all the various food stands selling quesediallas, the women hawking programs by the escalators, and small groups of ticket holders milling about the promenade. With five minutes to spare before the first match, I wandered casually into the bathroom, vaguely aware that someone was shouting at me and waving me down as I walked through the entrance. I almost turned around to find out what they were shouting about but I didn’t. Strangers were always shouting weird things at me in public and I was getting tired of it. So I went into a stall and took care of business.

Afterwards, when I made my way to the sinks to wash my hands, a heavyset middle-aged woman with the same fashion sense as Raggedy Ann came out of a nearby stall.
“Oh, the cleaning woman is here,” I thought, and reflected on the fact that I’m never totally comfortable when the cleaning woman is in the men’s room when I am.

Then she said, “Uh-oh. A man.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Am I in the woman’s room?” I asked.

“You sure are,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was the men’s room.”

“I figured,” she said.

I went outside and found my fiancé, Stacey, waiting for me. “I just walked into the women’s room,” I told her.

“I thought I saw you headed the wrong way,” she said. “I can’t leave you alone for a second.”

(By the way, I think Stacey looks like Robin Tunney, from Prison Break and The Craft. She disagrees. But this is my blog, so...)

Of course, this was not the first time I accidentally wandered into the women’s room. A couple of years ago, I made the same mistake in a multiplex. I had noticed, over the years, that most movie theaters give their two, gendered bathrooms one large, fancy entranceway with the men’s rooms down a passage that curves off to the right and women’s rooms in the one that curves to the left. When I was in the middle of watching the movie The Human Stain, I started feeling the effects of the enormous Cherry Coke I had gulped down over the past half hour. I didn’t want to miss too much of the film, so I jogged out of the theater, down the hall to the grand bathroom entranceway, and instinctively hooked a right. My immediate reaction was anger and confusion. “God damn it!” I cursed aloud to myself. “Where the hell are the urinals? What the hell kind of men’s room is this, anyway? Stupid movie theater.”

On my way out I had an intuition that I had just made a mistake and double checked the signs on the doors. That was when I knew that some wise guy architect had broken with convention and put the women’s room on the right and the men’s room on the left. Just to mess with me. Good thing there was nobody in there with me that time.

Of course, even when I’m in the right bathroom, I have to admit, it is never a place I enjoy going. I don’t mind my own bathroom so much, but I’m never comfortable using a friend’s bathroom, whether it is a teeny little watercloset tucked under a staircase, or one of those beautiful, hotel-like affairs, complete with a hot tub and novelty seashell shaped soap. And I certainly don’t like public bathrooms. There’s always something wrong. Missing paper towels. No soap. Annoying graffiti. Huge scary guys who glared at you as you approach your destination, asking you with their eyes why you’ve wandered into their bathroom.

I remember one of my college dorms, Monroe Hall had a spotless bathroom. At least, it was spotless for about an hour after the cleaning staff gave it the once over. Then every guy on the floor would shave, and the sinks would be filled with thick clots of facial hair that only the brave would try to rinse down the sink or clean off with a tissue. On Sunday mornings, it was not uncommon to find vomit in the bathtub, another stall door leaning from its hinges, and on one occasion, half of the ceramic sink broken away. How someone was able to break a sink in half, even in a drunken rage, is still a mystery to me. Maybe the Incredible Hulk got drunk and used my dorm’s men’s room.

“Hulk hates stupid ceramic sink!”

Luckily, the newspaper I used to work for, The Richmond County Excelsior, had a pretty good men’s room. It was functional, and every once in a while some men would hang out in there to talk about things they didn’t want the boss overhearing. It was only ever annoying when I’m washing my face to freshen up and one of the other reporters comes in to say something snarky about my last article, like, “So, looks like you misspelled Wayne Chrebet’s name yesterday. How’d you manage that one?”

Of course, rumor had it that, as nice as the men’s room was, the women’s room was much better. Apparently, in addition to the bathroom proper, they even had a connecting room with a carpet, a make-up mirror, and a couch. None of the men had seen it, and sometimes we had wished, in our most tired moments working under deadline, for a couch to take a power nap on. Sometimes we’d even complain amongst ourselves that we didn’t get a couch for our bathroom. On one such occasion, I was brave enough to complain to a female colleague. I said, “I’m jealous. Why do the women get a couch and we don’t?”

She replied, “I tell you what, when men get menstrual cramps, they can get a couch to relax on, too.”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess you can keep the couch.”

I’ve used good bathrooms in my time and bad bathrooms. The College of St. Nicholas (where I teach) has its share of both. I’ve really taken to the men’s rooms in the New Science Wing. It is nice and sparkly and pretty. But the one on the upper floor of St. Nicholas Hall that obviously used to be a women’s room because it has no urinals – that one is really the pits. I’ve also had harrowing experiences in St. Nicholas' sharing a bathroom with a former student who I gave a C to the previous semester. But these are all minor quibbles. My greatest bathroom misfortune was the fact that toilet bowls cost me a cherished childhood friendship.

When I was in the fifth grade, I knew a quirky guy named Hans who was an expert at making huge castles and cities out of Lego. He was a child genius, destined to be an architect, but he had bad body odor and was very sloppy. He tended to chew on his pens and they’d explode in his mouth and get ink all over his face and clothes. I thought he was really cool and he didn’t have a lot of friends, so I invited him to hang out at my house. I had an early home computer called the PC junior and we played some first generation adventure games on it, like King’s Quest and The Ancient Art of War. But he kept wandering off from the computer game to walk two rooms down the hall to use my bathroom. He must have used the bathroom six times in one hour. Then he returned to the game we were playing and we really got in groove. We were really absorbed in it.

Then my father came downstairs and said, “What the hell is this?”

Hans and I followed his gaze and we saw rivers of water pouring down the hallway. Hans had overstuffed the toilet and overflowed it. Water had been gushing over the rim of the toilet in a torrent for the ten minutes since Hans' last trip to the bathroom and the whole basement was flooded with an inch of water. And it was carpeted.

After Hans went home, my father took me aside and said, “Please don’t invite him over here any more.”

Not long afterwards, Hans invited me over his house for a sleepover. It was my first sleepover, and it was a lot of fun, and Hans and I stayed up all night talking about nonsense with our friends Mitch and Robert. The next morning, I was awake and wondering if I’d had any real sleep at all. Everyone else was out light a light. Groggy, I woke up, rubbed the sleep mucus from my eyes, and stumbled into the hallway, where Hans had said his bathroom was.

I opened the door and was about to walk in when I stopped dead in my tracks.

Hans' dad was in the bathroom, stark naked, with his left foot up on the sink as he was cutting his toe nails. Since his legs were spread wide apart, it was difficult for my eyes to avoid staring straight ahead at his dangling bait and tackle. I took several steps back.

The normally calm, glasses-wearing intellectual looked annoyed. “Bathroom doors are closed for a reason,” he said in an even voice.

They’re usually locked for a reason, too, I thought, but was too scared to say anything.

Hans' dad casually closed the door in my face. I went back to bed, still needing to go to the bathroom, but too scared to explore the other restrooms in the household. I never told Hans I saw his father naked, and his dad didn’t mention anything about the incident at the very tense breakfast which followed.

While I cannot prove it, I wouldn’t be surprised if Hans' dad took his son aside, shortly thereafter, and said, “Please don’t invite Marc over here any more.”

Whether or not this really happened, I never went over Hans' house again and he never went over mine. And a potentially golden friendship was flushed down the toilet.

Men with Guns

2007-06-23T23:23:00.002-05:00

Mr. Dennis Cavanaugh finished cleaning the .44 Magnum and placed the rag on the workbench beside him. “So you’ve never fired a gun before, Marc?”

There was no judgment in the question, but enough traces of the bewilderment for me to wonder if it was rare for a 20-year-old male in the rural parts of upstate New York to have no experience whatsoever with firearms. I had handled toy guns in stores, and had gotten pretty good at firing off laser volleys at the gangsters in Hogan’s Alley on my Nintendo Entertainment System during my junior high school years, but I had never actually touched a real rifle or handgun. “No,” I replied honestly.

A shade less than six feet tall, I had short brown hair that I combed back over my head, slightly arched eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. My gold, wire-rimmed glasses and goatee added at least three years to my face, often causing people to forget that I was under the legal drinking age. A third-year college student at the time, I stood with Mr. Cavanaugh in the basement of the Cavanaugh home. Displayed on the walls and shelves around me were an assortment of rifles, handguns, and bows and arrows used for both target practice and hunting game. All told, it was an impressive collection of weapons – the kind of collection I might have grown up with had my dad been an outdoorsman, too.

Mr. Cavanaugh still had a muted concern in his eyes. “Mrs. Cavanugh wanted me to make sure your mother said it was okay that we take you out shooting.”

I smiled cheerfully. “I didn’t tell her.”

Mr. Cavanaugh raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t?”

“If I told her, she’d just get worried and tell me not to do it,” I said. “I figure I’ll do it, I’ll survive, and then I’ll tell her all about it when I get back to campus. This way, I can do what I want, not worry her, and still not keep it a secret for long.”

Mr. Cavanaugh massaged his jaw thoughtfully. “I just don’t want her to think that your friend’s parents are a bunch of crazy hicks that have nothing better to do than take her son out shooting.”

“She’d never think that,” I said, trying to convince myself of this as much as my host.

Cavanaugh gave me an easy smile. “Okay, then. It sounds like we should have a quick safety lesson before we go out.” The older gentleman held the gun aloft, facing its barrel away from me (and himself), and pointing it towards the basement wall. “Never point the gun at anything you aren’t going to shoot at.” He paused to make sure that I heard and understood the rule. He saw my nod, and continued. “It’s not a toy. You’ve been trained to think of it as a toy, but it’s a weapon. Never play with it or point it at a human.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Also, remember that every gun is loaded.”

I looked up at Mr. Cavanaugh. “You mean never assume it’s unloaded?”

“I mean every gun is loaded,” the man repeated, speaking with a calm deliberateness. “Even if it isn’t loaded, it’s loaded. If you start thinking a gun is empty, you get careless. You start pointing at things you shouldn’t. Better to assume it’s always loaded. Every gun is loaded.”

“I understand.”

Cavanaugh rested the gun gently on my palm. It weighed more than the gray plastic arcade guns I was used to carrying, but it was no heavier than I expected. The feel of the metal against my skin wasn’t cold or clammy, as such contact was often described in books I had read. Instead, it felt alive; it felt alien. It possessed a power that I was only then fully realizing, and it filled me with fearful awe. I now had the power, through either incompetence or insane whim, to take a person’s life, and I was briefly terrified of that power. The sense of distrust, of myself and of a lifeless object, had been the same three years ago when I first got behind the wheel of a car and realized how easy a thing it would be to run someone over. But I had learned to drive responsibly and I was sure I would learn how to handle weapons at a shooting range with just as much maturity.

Sean Cavanaugh appeared in the doorway just in time to see me looking down on the weapon with barely concealed reverence. “Wicked, huh?”

I smiled slightly, wanting to show enthusiasm for the gun to Sean without appearing too frivolous in front of Sean’s father. “Yes.”

Slightly shorter than me, Sean was nevertheless more impressive because his body was muscular and well-tanned, making mine seem almost soft and undefined in comparison. We had been college roommates in the State University of New York at Honeychurch Falls for the past two years. The rural college, Binghampton’s chief rival for the title of best state institution in New York, had the advantage of being small and competitive, and it also had a student body that was sixty-percent female. Since the campus atmosphere was so agreeable, and since I lived more than six hours away from home, we rarely left campus for long. This visit to Sean’s house came at a time close to finals when we were in desperate need of a break from studying and from the processed chicken that the dining hall cooks served five times daily.

“I see you showed him Dirty Harry’s gun first, dad,” Sean said. “That’s the one Marc was the most excited about using.”

I handed the weapon back to Mr. Cavanaugh. “Clint Eastwood rules.”

“Well, now you can be Clint for a day,” said Sean. “Just don’t try firing it one-handed like he does in the films. It’s not really done that way. You’ll hurt your wrist.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sean’s father. “These things have a hell of a kick. If you’re not ready for it, it’ll blow you right over.”

I was disappointed. One of the main reasons I was excited about visiting my roommate’s family again that weekend was for the opportunity to finally fire off a real gun. And one of the things I had looked forward to more than anything was firing Dirty Harry’s gun the way that Dirty Harry fired it – one-handed. “Okay,” I said at last.

It took less than a half an hour for the us to gear up and say goodbye to Mrs. Cavanaugh – who entreated me to be careful – before heading out to the shooting range. Mr. Cavanaugh drove us just outside of town, heading in the direction of lands owned by Matt Turow, a close family friend who had always made the Cavanaughs feel welcome to use the range on his property. As we drove, Sean gave me a tour of Strawberry Town from the car. The town, which rested just south of Buffalo, was one of the most rural that I had ever seen, but had a peaceful beauty that made me wish I lived in a place like it. I was (and am) a terrible judge of population, but I would have been surprised if more than about five thousand people lived in the area, which was best known outside its limits for its annual strawberry festival. As we drove past a particularly woodsy area, one house struck me as looking particularly modern, and it seemed as if an area of woods had recently been cleared to make room for it.

“See that yellow house?” Sean pointed. “Downstaters from Queens. They came up here three years ago because they were tired of the nose and the rudeness of the city. They wanted to get away from it all.”

“That’s why I went to school in Honeychurch Falls,” I said. “I wanted to get away from the coarse New York personality.”

“Yeah, but when you moved upstate, you didn’t bring the coarse New York personality with you,” Sean said. “These people did. They thought they could cure themselves of being overworked and bitter by coming out here, but they brought their problems with them. We tried to make them welcome, but they just wanted to be left alone.”

“They didn’t realize it, but they were the first to start transforming their little haven into the kind of unfriendly city they had just left,” Sean’s father observed.

“Since then, more trees have been knocked down to make room for even more bitter city refugees,” said Sean. “They’re spreading like a bad cancer.”

“Luckily, there’s still so much untouched land up here,” I observed.

Sean turned away from the car window. “How long will that last? Ten years? Twenty? The forestland we drove by on the way here used to be open for the public. When I was a kid, I used to go for nature walks on it. But now fences have been put up and nobody’s allowed to walk or hunt on the land. I don’t know who owns it, only that more and more land is being lost to this enclosure crap. And each time I come home from college on a visit the town looks different than before.”

“Well,” began Mr. Cavanaugh, “we’re friends with a lot of land owners in the area, like Matt Turow, who are good people. As long as people like Matt are around, who have some sense of community, we don’t have to worry about being booted out of nature.” As if one cue, Cavanaugh pulled the car into a short dirt road that led up to a small, two-story house. “And here we are,” he said, rolling the car to a halt beside the house and putting it in park.

Getting out of the car, Mr. Cavanaugh unpacked the weapons and the supply bag from the trunk and led the two young men past the house to the grounds behind it. Turow was home, barely awake, sitting on a rocking chair on the porch as we walked past. He was a craggy faced fellow in a T-shirt and baseball cap. “Hi, Cavanaughs.”

“We’re just taking Marc here shooting,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. “It’s his first time.”

“His first time?” Turow repeated with tired incredulity. “Where’d he grow up, a septic tank?”

Sean chuckled, his dad looked embarrassed for me, and I reddened with anger. I must admit, that remark didn’t win me over to Mr. Turow.

“He’s a great young man,” Mr. Cavanaugh replied. “We’ll see you later.”

And we moved on to the target range.

The dirt path sloped gradually down until the we found ourselves in an open field. While the trees and bushes surrounding the field were still brown and dead from winter, the grass was bright green and wet from rainfall earlier in the morning. The range itself was a row of three bull’s-eye targets hung from a wooden frame at the base of the incline.

“That’s the safest place for a range, because all bullets that miss or pass through the target will hit the side of the hill,” Sean explained. “If the range had been placed in front of the woods instead, bullets could go wildly through the trees and hit anyone who could be walking there. No one is supposed to be wandering around there, but you have to play it safe.”

We had brought three guns with them that day – a 7.62 millimeter Russian SKS Assault Rifle, a Remington model 870 12-gauge shotgun, and a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum. We were all wearing what reminded me of giant red earmuffs made of plastic to protect our eardrums from the sounds of the gunfire.

Sean’s father went first, positioning himself fifteen years from the target and resting their supply bag to the side. He loaded the SKS, which looked a lot like the AK-47s with the curved clips used by terrorists in action movies, and braced it between his breast and shoulder bones. He aimed at the target that was left of center and fired off one round, which blasted a hole through the dead center of the target. After pulling the trigger twice more and landing both shots near the bull’s-eye, he handed off the rifle to me.

“Here you go.” Mr. Cavanaugh pointed to the part of his chest against which he had braced the weapon. “Place the butt here, not against your shoulder or you’ll hurt yourself.”

I did so. Then I aimed the gun just as if I were playing a shoot-‘em-up video game. Once I felt I had the target in sight, I pulled the trigger. Chunks of the target exploded into the air as the bullets struck its surface. Though it was now hard to tell which holes were mine and which were Mr. Cavanaugh’s, they were all clustered around the bull’s-eye. I almost yelled out in excitement, but stopped myself, not wanting Mr. Cavanaugh to think I was going to get too charged up to remember the safety lecture. Mr. Cavanaugh nodded. There was an expression of subdued surprised on his face. “Very good, Marc. That was your first shot ever, huh?”

“Yes.” That rocked, I thought.

I then stood back and allowed Sean to take a turn. I watched my roommate pose like one of the little green army man toys that came in the plastic bag of fifty for 99 cents, with legs spread, weapon centered on target and eye set level with the rifle. Though his face looked tight set and grim, he was clearly enjoying himself just as much as I had during my turn at the target as he shot round after round into the bull’s-eye. Once Sean spent his ammo, we moved on to the shotgun.

As I accepted the new weapon from Mr. Cavanaugh, I accidentally let the facedown barrel brush against the wet lawn. Sean and his father offered simultaneous protests that the end of the weapon was getting grass and rainwater on it. Embarrassed that I had gotten he gun dirty, I impulsively lifted the barrel and brushed the blades of grass off of it with my fingers. Sean and his father both flinched and winced in horror.

I jerked my hand away from the barrel. “What?”

“Never do that,” said Sean.

“It’s unloaded, isn’t it? The safety is on?”

“It’s loaded,” said Sean’s father, “and the safety is off.”

“Oh,” I murmured, realizing it has taken me less than an hour to ignore the safety instructions I had been given. I flexed my fingers before my eyes slowly and deliberately, silently thanking God that they had not been blasted off into the woods due to my carelessness.

Mr. Cavanaugh looked concerned for several moments, weighing what to say. He thought he had already said it all, to no avail. Still, seeing the muted fear in my face convinced him that the almost catastrophic mistake had mad its own impression on me. “Okay, you can shoot now,” was all Mr. Cavanaugh said.

I regained my composure quickly and raised the shotgun. When I pulled the trigger, I felt the weapon jump up more than I expected, but I retained my grip. When I lowered the gun, I saw a hole the size of a tennis ball drilled through the outside rim of the target, far away from the bull’s-eye.

“Damn,” I said. I steadied myself and fired again. This time, the slug blasted through the target, grazing the red center and knocking out the large chunk of yellow. “Ah,” I smiled.

The shotgun was reloaded and passed around two more times before we moved on to the final weapon. Smiling, Sean raised aloft the handgun. “Dirty Harry time.”

I took the gun in the proper manner and aimed it at a fresh target. I was tempted to try it one-handed right away, but my last experience disobeying the safety lecture was fresh in my mind. With two hands on the gun, I pulled the trigger. The barrel kicked up as if it had just spat out a cannonball. (Well … not really. But it was a hefty kick.) The jolt did nothing to sprain my wrists, but it was enough of a shock that it sent the bullet too high and too far to the left to hit the bull’s-eye.

Handguns are generally less accurate than rifles,” Sean reassured. “Especially this one.”

“Hmmm.” I tried it again, two-handed. The shot was still high and wide, but not as bad. Then I made a decision. I slowly released my left hand from the gun and aimed the weapon with his right hand only, waiting for sounds of complaint from his hosts. No protests came – only an admonishment from the other men to beware of the sudden kick. I pulled the trigger. The gun bucked under my grip like a wild horse trying to throw its mount, but I maintained a strong hold on the barrel. The shot went high and to the left.

I smiled. “That was cool.”

And it was.

I’ll always remember the feel of firing Dirty Harry’s gun just like Clint Eastwood, and I’ll always remember the enormous fun it was.

And, on the flip side, every few months I’ll look at my fingers during a moment of quiet self awareness and be thankful that I didn’t accidentally blow them off while wiping the grass off of the barrel of the rifle.

Yikes!

Dial Tone

2007-06-23T10:03:00.001-05:00

I opened the door to Saint Thomas’ rectory to find the two police officers Father Jim Makem had told me to expect standing on the steps outside. I greeted them in a friendly fashion, as any good secretary would do, and invited them in to warm themselves in the waiting room while I went to fetch Father Jim. It was an unseasonably cold April, which was not surprising since most of the New York area had been forced to endure that it had snowed on the first day of spring. The officers stepped inside but remained standing, waiting patiently in front of the secretary cubicle in which I had been working.

Before I left to page the father, I noted (with an inner smile) that the officers were something of a mismatched pair. One of them was a large, overweight man who wore a brown derby squashed down over his eyes and his badge pinned to the collar of his rumpled tan trench coat. He removed a fat cigar from his mouth as he entered and extinguished it in the ashtray which rested on the waiting room table. His partner, a slim, attractive Puerto Rican woman in her thirties, seemed his opposite in virtually every respect. She had poise, personal beauty, and class – traits which her partner was in dire need of. They reminded me a lot of the Batman characters Bullock and Montoya – police officers who had a love/hate relationship with Batman – but their names were actually Trask and Colon.

When he heard that the police had arrived, Father Jim came down the stairs and shook the hands of the officers in serious-yet-friendly manner. At six-foot-six, the priest stood half a head taller than Trask and had a similarly barrel-chested build, so he dwarfed the still-formidable-looking Trask.

“Hello,” the female officer said. “I’m Ileana Colon, and this is my partner, Douglas Trask.”

“Father Jim,” the priest replied.

“I understand you’ve had some vandalism,” Trask said in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Yes.” Father Jim nodded and his eyes dipped downward in an expression that was more sad than angry.

Although I hadn’t actually seen the vandalism, I knew what it was. Someone had broken into the church and used black permanent marker to write “The pope is the whore of Satan” on the wall. On the floor just below the inscription, fifty seven multi-colored condoms in transparent plastic packages had been neatly arranged in the figure of an inverted crucifix. Apparently, Saint Thomas’ wasn’t the fist incident of vandalism. Other churches had been hit recently, and the local press was already theorizing that the vandals came from the same nameless cult that had been leaving the bodies of animals in children’s playgrounds.

With the officers following close behind him, Father Jim left the rectory and headed out towards the site of the vandalism, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The police were the first of many visitors to come to the rectory that night, and I, being only the secretary, found myself occasionally discouraged that I was missing all the juicy parts. Once the door shut on Father Jim’s conference room, it was back to sitting waiting for the phone to ring.

The first time I was left with nothing to do, I began to look around the office, wondering if there was anything around of interest. It was the first time I had worked at this job, so I was still feeling my way around, trying to become comfortable with it. I was covering my friend Marissa’s secretary hours while she went on a cross-country hunting trip. I hoped that the additional earnings would ensure that I was able to see Amy Grant at Madison Square Garden this coming August. It was a bonus that there wasn’t much I had to do aside from answering the phone, since I’d never really used a complex, office-type phone before and had no idea how to manage three lines and an intercom properly.

The little office I was placed in had a soft brown, wooden paneling, and on its walls were a multitude of pictures such as the Sacred Heart and Our Lady of Fatima. Contrasting the strongly religious pictures with some humor were a number of little joke plaques with clever phrases printed on them, like: “Being a priest doesn’t pay much, but the retirement benefits are out of this world.”

I leaned back in the office chair and folded my fingers behind my head. For the moment, the place was dead silent and I felt as if I had it all to myself. With a solid block of quiet time spread out ahead of me, I felt it was the perfect opportunity to begin reading the book I had brought with me – Rush Limbaugh’s The Way Things Ought to Be.

I had read straight through to page fifty-seven before I heard the sound of footsteps on the rectory stairs. Without hesitation, I snapped the book shut and slid it discretely under the desk, resting it atop my lap. The sight of such a potentially offensive book consistently plummeted other peoples’ estimation of me in the past, and I did not want to chance provoking that reaction from Father Jim. (Of course, because I had chosen to be so secretive, there would be no way for me to ever find out that the priest had a copy of the same book in the study upstairs.)

“The police have gone.” Jim (who looked remarkably like character-actor Brendan Gleeson) leaned on the counter above my desk and assumed a casual pose. To make himself more comfortable, he had unfastened the top button of his shirt and his starched white collar was hanging out in midair. “They didn’t learn anything new here, but they are certain they’ll find the vandals soon.”

Observing the digital clock on the corner of my desk, Jim straightened up and brushed some lint off his inky black slacks. “Pretty soon I’ll have to interview a couple that’s getting married and right after that I’ll be going out to talk to the Confirmation students, so I’ll probably be busy all night. Have you gotten the hang of the phone yet?”

“I know what I’m supposed to do, but I’m nervous because I haven’t done it yet. There are a few steps, so there’s a lot of room to make a mistake.”

“You’ll be okay.” The priest dug an envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s your pay before I forget.”

“Thank you.” I pulled my pay out of the envelope and slipped it into my wallet.

“I guess you’re excited about graduating from high school.” Jim closed the top button on his shirt and slid his priest’s collar back into position.

“Sure am.”

“Lot of stuff going on at the end of the year now.” Jim’s face melted into a half-mischievous, half-self-conscious smile. “So, have you asked a beautiful young girl to the prom yet?”

I cleared my throat, shifted position in my seat, and glanced down at my hands. “I’ve asked seven beautiful young girls to the prom.”

“Ah.” Jim instantly regretted bringing up the sore subject. He patted me reassuringly on the shoulder and added, “I’d forget about it if I were you. Thousands of other girls where those seven came from.”

I smiled at the horribly familiar line. “I haven’t had any luck in the past, so I won’t hold my breath.”

Jim waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t talk like that. You should hear how you sound. It’s maudlin and ridiculous.”

“Yeah. I don’t mean to sound like a poor thing. I’m just close to graduation and I haven’t dated much at all in high school.”

“A lot of people don’t date much until they reach college,” Jim reassured me.

“Junior high was worse, of course,” I added. “It was so bad I had a complex about dating. I went into high school upset because I new the prom was coming and I wasn’t looking forward to not finding a date for it. So my freshman year of high school I had this uneasy feeling that each year I’d get closer to the prom and, in the end, still not go.”

“Oh, Marc…”

“I told my friend Smiley all this and he had a funny response. He blinked a few times and said, ‘So, Marc, I guess you’re not exactly a ‘cup-is-half-full’ kind of guy, are you?’ But here I am, and it is prom time, and my self-fulfilled prophecy has come to pass.”

There was a moment of quiet.

Jim stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly back and forth on his heels. “You know, whenever I get depressed about my own track record in life, I remember a bumper sticker I saw as a kid. It said: ‘If the devil ever taunts you with your past, just remind him of his future.’”

I smirked. “I’ve got to remember that one.”

Father Jim shook his head in disbelief. “Wow. I can barely believe that twenty years have passed since my own graduation. They’ve gone by…like a blur.” As he said this, he made a slow, sweeping motion with his hand. “Whatever you do, don’t let everything slip by you. Forget your depressions and live life to the fullest, the way God wants you to.”

Even though it was an old, almost trite message, it regained its freshness after Jim restated it.

Then I found myself chuckling.

“What?”

“I think events conspired to prevent me from going. It isn’t entirely my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” I said, “my high school allows people who don’t go to the school to go to the prom. Funnily enough, the girls in my high school can’t stand the guys. So they’ve all asked their cousins, or their thirty-year-old boyfriends to take them.”

“Thirty-year-old boyfriends?”

“Well, yeah. Guys that age hate dating women in their thirties because they feel that those women all either want to get married right away, because their clock is ticking, or they are bitter about past boyfriends. (I’m not saying this is how I feel, but I heard several men that age say this. And Smiley says it, too.) So they like to date younger women. As young as possible. And high school girls get a boyfriend with money and a career out of the deal, who can buy them things, take them around, and act all worldly and mature. And they’re probably better in bed than high school guys. And that is why most teen pregnancies, so I hear, are from guys in their twenties and thirties, and not high school guys. Now, I think this all kind of sucks, not just because of the sort of cradle-robbing, Lolita-esque, statutory rape angle, but because … well … there’s no girls to go to the prom with.”

The priest’s mind reeled at this. There were a million questions he seemed to want to ask, but he finally settled on the final thing I said. “So you aren’t the only one not going to the prom?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Funnily enough, there’s this really cool guy Bubba, who took a lot of steroids, and worked out til he got lots of muscles. He was the hottest guy in junior high, and all the women swooned over him. In fact, my first crush didn’t have the time of day for me, but loved Bubba. But now it is high school and Bubba, the kind of junior high, can’t get a date. He even came up to me and said, ‘Marc, what the hell is going on around here? You can’t get a prom date, I can’t get a prom date. What’s with all these cousins and middle-aged guy dates?’”

“’Well, we all know what the cousins are about,’ I said. ‘Parents are worried their daughters will have sex with their prom dates, so they send them with a relative.’

“’That might not work,’ Bubba said. ‘I know I’d do my cousin. She’s hot.’”

Father Jim winced at this point in my narrative. “Yes, yes, but what did he say about the situation you were both in?”

“Bubba didn’t know what to do about it,” I said. “He was very angry and said, ‘I don’t get it, Marc. I’m handsome. Put you in a suit, you’re diesel and ready to rock n’ roll. What the hell?’”

“So, no solution?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s not going.”

“And the seven girls you asked were all going with cousins and thirty-year-olds?” Father Jim asked.

“Hmmm…”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“Well, the first girl I asked could only go with a Jewish guy, and I’m not Jewish. The next two girls I asked were the smartest, coolest girls in the school, and I found out they were both lesbians. Then I asked a really cool hippie chick, and she told me she was boycotting the prom because it was a symbol of Western capitalist decadence and objectified women. A junior girl then asked me to take her to the prom because she wanted to go twice before she graduated. But she had a boyfriend and he objected, so she uninvited me.”

“What about the other two?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just kidding at that point. I don’t even remember who I asked. It just figured, ‘Ask five, why not ask seven?’ They picked up on this, and probably heard that I’d been bouncing from girl to girl, were insulted they were low on my list, and said ‘No.’ And good for them, really.”

“So none of this has anything to do with your theory about the thirtysomething dates and the cousins.”

I cleared my throat. “Ahem. Well … I don’t know. Some of these were probably excuses to avoid hurting my feelings. In other cases, I think an invisible – or visible - parent was involved. The Jewish girl is going with her cousin, for example.”

“Ah.”

“So I guess that’s life.”

“I guess so,” said Father Jim.

He looked at his watch. “Well, I better get to work. Call me if you need anything.”

“10-4,” I said.

And Jim sodded off.

The conversation wound up leaving me in a thoughtful, subdued mood, but not a depressed one. Jim had given me something to think about. When the phone range, the shock of reality intruding on my thoughts startled me, and it took me a second to recover.

I gingerly plucked up the pone receiver and held it between my head and shoulder, keeping my hands free as I spoke so I could play aimlessly with the parish envelopes. “Hello, Saint Thomas’ rectory,” I said in his happy secretary voice.

“Hello? Father Jim?” The woman’s reply from the other end was a little hesitant.

“Ah, no,” I said apologetically. “I’m just the secretary. Would you like me to get him?”

“Yes, please.”

I wasn’t sure originally, but now I was positive there was something wrong with the woman’s voice. It seemed to quiver or shake as if she had some sort of speech impediment. It was hard to tell since she barely spoke more than two words at a time to me.

“Hold on.” I hesitated a second, looking over the multitude of little black buttons and flashing lights all over the telephone. I tried to go over in my mind the instructions Father Jim had given me when I first arrived. “Let me see,” I murmured under my breath. “It’s ‘Hold,’ then ‘Intercom,’ and then…two and four? Yes. Two and four.”

My fingers danced along the keys, hitting “Intercom” first and then the number twenty four. After two or three beep noises that were too high frequency for me to hear well, Father Jim’s voice appeared on the intercom.

“Yes, Marc?”

“Call for you.”

“Got it.”

Knowing that the father had transferred the call, I hung up and sat back in my swivel chair. I regarded the empty waiting room that my cubicle was attached to with a blank expression and felt things slowly drift out of focus. Before I could slip into one of my habitual, trance-like states, the telephone rang again.

It was the same woman.

“I never got to talk to Father Jim. My line was cut off.”

I frowned, knowing that my inexperience was probably somehow responsible. Feeling I had to make it up to her by getting the Father as quickly as I could, I hurriedly hit “intercom,” summoned Father Jim to the phone, and told him that the caller was back online. After I hung up the phone, my irritation with myself lingered, and I wondered what I did to lose the woman’s call. Little mistakes like that – which most other people couldn’t care less about – had a tendency to bother me and I found himself suddenly too restless to read my book or do much of anything at all.

“So, what do I do now?” I mumbled to myself.

It occurred to me that I could pray, which was an appropriate thing to do in a church. I rolled the option around in my head a moment before responding verbally to it.

“Nah. I don’t even know how to do that properly.”

Praying to God was something I was never very good at, so I tried to improve my communication with Heaven by picking someone I felt more comfortable chatting with. I wanted someone I could relate better to than God, who was little more than a distant, masculine force whom nobody had ever seen. As it turned out, Mary was the ideal choice for me. She was a kind, beautiful mother figure, who had an advantage over God in that she was human, female, and was never, at any time, responsible for killing most of the earth’s inhabitants with a torrential rainstorm.

Knowing that exhibiting this attitude towards God was not the fastest way to get into Heaven, I later alternated prayers between Mary and God. I found a gimmick to make God more human simply by picturing the pleasant, bearded image of Jesus that one found in paintings as the logical recipient of my prayers. (Not the bloody Jesus hanging on the cross, but the well groomed Jesus of paintings, surrounded by sheep in a field and smiling warmly at a posse of young children. That Jesus.) Now that was a sympathetic audience. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it sooner, it was so simple. However, despite my best efforts, my preference for Mary stayed with me.
In the end, it turned out I didn’t have to pray to pass time in the office since something happened to distract me. Just as Father Jim had predicted, a young couple arrived at the door shortly thereafter, and I let them in. There was a man in his twenties, with a strong, unshaven jaw and steel grey eyes, whom I wasn’t particularly interested in at all. The fiancé on the other hand, was a pleasantly familiar sight.

Her eyes were soft brown, like the wavy curls of her hair, and they glinted with humor and intelligence. Her complexion was slightly bronzed as well, adding to my suspicion she was not only Italian, but of a "purer" descent than my own German-diluted blood (if one will forgive me for coaching these descriptions in dangerously Nazi-sounding terms ... apologies). The bridge of her nose was raised slightly, but it added rather than detracted from her looks, giving her face character and an unlikely beauty. (She looked vaguely like Valeria Golino, from Rain Man and Hot Shots.)

I had noticed her every Saturday evening as mass and would always cast furtive glances in her direction during the slow parts. It was hardly the case that I was filled with lustful thoughts throughout the entire mass, but there was no denying she was a distraction. Still, her regular presence at the end of his pew gave me a bizarre sense of comfort and completeness, and I was put off whenever she wasn’t there. In some bizarre sort of way, I had come to think of seeing her each week as having a relationship of a kind with her. Of course, she didn’t know I was alive, but that was nothing new for me.

Unfortunately, this man of hers with the steel grey eyes had recently appeared next to her in church and I took an instant dislike to him. Knowing that he would soon be her husband did not further endear him to me.

“Is Father Jim in?” Steel Grey Eyes asked.

Before I could respond, Father Jim appeared at the door of his office and invited the couple in. When the door closed, its heavy brown wood prevented any sound from sifting through. The silence was not long-lasting as the telephone rang the instant the door jam clicked.

“Saint Thomas’ rectory, secretary speaking.”

“Father Jim, please,” a woman’s voice asked.

“I’m sorry, he’s in conference right now.” I fumbled for a pad and pencil to take her name and phone number down with. “Can I take a message?”

The moment she heard this, the woman began to break down. “Please, can you get him?”

“Um…I’m not sure – “

“Please,” she pleaded. “I have to talk to him. I’ve tried to reach him twice already and I got disconnected. My father…” She stopped, too overcome to continue.

I hadn’t recognized her voice because it was composed at first, but now it was trembling again, and he knew it was the same woman from before. He closed his eyes and could feel the tears coming down her cheeks.

“My father is dying.”

Oh, God, I thought. And I hung up on her twice. “I’ll go get him.”

I placed the phone gently on the table and went over to knock on the conference room door. It didn’t take long for me to coax Father Jim away from the meeting, and I was too worried about the caller to even notice that the Italian woman was staring at me as I stood in the doorway.

Father Jim took the phone from off of the table and listened to what the woman had to say. When she was done, it was his unenviable task to tell her that he couldn’t go to the hospital. “I’m sorry, Marilla, but I’m not going to be able to get there right away.”

I didn’t know what the woman’s reply was, but I knew that I was disappointed that Father Jim didn’t just cast off everything else to help her. An interview with an engaged couple and the instruction of a Confirmation class seemed like pretty small time stuff next to what she and her father were going through.

Jim was soothing and apologetic as he spoke to Marilla, but it was clear that he was pained to hear her so distraught. “There is a chaplain at the hospital. It’s his job to give Last Rites to patients there. You should have him do it…I understand that, but the rites have to be administered. I could stop everything and leave right now and – God forbid – still arrive too late.”

I knew the priest was right, but it didn’t make it any easier for me to listen to. I couldn’t even conceive how Marilla felt. (And I hung up on her. Twice. I forgot to press the ‘hold’ button before the ‘intercom’ button. Twice. And I was warned about doing it, too.)

“I promise,” Jim added, “when I’m done I’ll be right over to see you. I’ll get Father Romano to cover my Confirmation class and I’ll be there in a half hour. In the meantime, you should have the chaplain see your father. I’ll come and visit him afterwards.”

I sank into my chair and rested my forehead against my palm. She called looking for help and I made her eat dial tone. Twice. Good God, what a moron.

Father Jim wished her well and reassured her that he would be there as soon as he could before hanging up and returning to the couple in his office.

I mentally pounded myself over and over, viciously cutting myself apart in my mind. I just couldn’t get over the stupidity of what I’d done. I couldn’t get Marilla’s pained voice out of my mind. I had to do something to make it up to her, to ease the guilt I felt.

It came to me without him even really thinking. I didn’t plan it or realize I was about to do it. I just did it. I pulled myself out of my chair, walked to the center of the room, and knelt on the red carpet. Feeling the beginnings of a tear in my right eye, I felt the same quiver I heard over the phone creep into my voice as I spoke.

“Please, God…whatever your will is towards her, father…please help her.”

It was short and simple, but I had never prayed more earnestly to God in my life. This time I needed no gimmick and no image to summon in my mind. This time my feelings were strong enough to make the connection. It was all there in the strength of my guilt, the certainty of my faith, and the rare depth of the compassion which I felt for a person whom I had never met.

Dorm Daze: Fun with DeForest Kelly and . . . . . . . . THE WESTERN CANON OF LITERATURE

2007-06-01T14:40:00.001-05:00

Living in a minuscule dorm room with one (or two, if you are a tripled freshman) roommates who are intent on leaving dirty laundry all over the floor, coming in drunk at three a.m. and throwing up into the garbage can, and spending as much time as possible playing video games is not conducive to study. Which is why, during my freshman year in college, I spent more time staying up playing dice into the wee hours of the morning than I did studying and going to class. I rarely went to the large lecture classes, because they were boring, followed the textbook, and the teacher wouldn't notice if I was gone anyway. The smaller classes were harder to skip. Still, I developed a series of really bad habits thanks to the rampant adolescent, Huck-Finn lifestyle promoted by dorm culture. One of the bad habits I developed was eating too much, which is why I gained the Freshman 30. (Forget the Freshman 15. That's kids stuff.) The other bad habit I developed was I started spending money on credit. (I never financially recovered from developing such a terrible habit. To this day, I still find living within my means difficult, and credit card companies just love me for it.)

Yep, my first semester stunk. Not because I had to learn to do my own laundry for the first time, or get myself a checking account, but because the class I was most interested in taking, Medieval Philosophy, was taught by a guy who seemed to hate me, and appeared to be out to get me. He also acted as if he had a little box in his office marked "truth" that he kept to himself and didn't let anyone else have a look at. The rest of my classes were required core courses - and nobody wants to take those, myself included, even though I agree, philosophically with the liberal arts core in a way that most lazy people don't.

Of course, one of the things that didn't help my bad attitude about attending class was high school. I felt like I didn't learn much in high school and classes designed for freshman in college are so easy (in order to ease freshmen into the scary world of the university) that I was convinced college would be as big of a waste of time. Yep, college would be yet another waiting room one had to spend four years in before one was allowed to enter the real world. Just like high school before it.

Fortunately, during my second semester, all this changed. I asked for permission to take a course specifically designed for upperclassmen, "The Age of Dante," as a mere freshman. I begged the teachers to let me in. It took much coaxing and many phone calls. I needed the intellectual challenge. And I needed to study Italian heritage. And how cool was the idea of reading a book about a dude who gets taken on a tour of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory? And he sees famous people like Ulysses in hell and Saint Francis in Heaven. Really cool! With reluctance, the two professors teaching the course - one in history, one in English - granted me permission, and I became the second freshman in history to take that course at that school. It was marvelous, and opened up a whole world of learning to me. I was reborn!

And I went from being a C student to an A, A- student. Thanks to Age of Dante, my attitude changed, and I started taking harder classes and getting more out of the easier ones. So, as a college professor now, I am allergic to the idea that the best way to win students over is to water down the curriculum. Sometimes what they need is a REAL challenge. And a REALLY MEATY CLASS.

But, I must admit, by the second half of my sophomore year, I was beginning to tire of work, work, work. A lot of my upperclassmen friends, who I met during Age of Dante, graduated between my freshman and sophomore years. The guys I came in with as a freshman (like Sean Cavanaugh) had decided that the best way to meet women was to pledge the co-ed service fraternity APO, and I did not join them in the endeavor because a) I was opposed to organizations that employed pledging, even if they did not haze and b) I heard that Bill Clinton was a member of APO and, at the time, I was one of those people who woke up in the morning hating Clinton, shaved my stubble hating Clinton, and ate my breakfast cereal hating Clinton before managing to get him out of my thoughts and have a normal rest-of-the-day. (Of course, since Bush II has been president, I've missed Clinton terribly...)

So, virtually friendless (Sean and the others were always off gallivanting with APO), I was left all alone, in my dorm, for most of my sophomore year, reading. Reading the great books. I learned a lot. I read Plato, Dante, Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Thoreau, Darwin, Thomas More, Cicero, Virgil, the Brontes, Chaucer, the letters and diaries of Galileo, Boethius, The Cosmographia of Bernardus Silvestrus, Beowulf, The Turn of the Screw, Gulliver's Travels, Lady Chatterly's Lover, Locke's Second Treatise of Government, and C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed, The Great Divorce, and The Screwtape Letters. As a bunch, I'd give these books four stars. Two enthusiastic thumbs up.

And I felt smarter than I ever had before. Some of these works were fast-paced, fun reads (C.S. Lewis' stuff was like reading a fun beach novel, and yet was theologically interesting and emotionally rewarding), while others were very difficult reads. (Reading ten pages of Thucydides was harder than reading 1,000 pages of Anne Rice. REALLY HARD. But I loved it once the teacher explained to me what I had just read during the next days lecture. So I liked stuff like that in retrospect, and today it is one of my favorite books.)

After reading all this heady stuff, I needed a break. Half of it shored up my belief in the establishment, the church, marriage, family, and the patriarchy. That didn't rock my world, but put my conservatism on firmer idealogical and intellectual ground than it had been during all of my debates with my liberal atheist friends from 5th grade through 12th. If I only I had read all this stuff earlier, I would have held up my end better, I thought. On the other hand, the other half of the books I read, especially those written after the Enlightenment, made fun of all of the above, and reserved special venom for Catholics and middle-class morality. The British writers seemed to love making fun of the Italians, also, I noticed. As a whole, the post-Enlightenment stuff seemed to promote atheism, socialism, and feminism, and made all of the above seem far less frightening and unreasonable than I expected. (No wonder arch-conservatives only read the bible and Tom Clancy! I thought. They're safe, then! This stuff doesn't get inside your head that way! And no wonder I wasn't allowed to read this in High School! The excuse is that the adults were afraid the books would be too hard for the kids to understand. The real reason is that the education major doesn't prepare teachers to teach ACTUAL literature to young people and, even if they were trained and did teach such works properly, parents would go out of their minds if they saw little Timmy reading The Communist Manifesto and Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man in 11th grade ... or ever for that matter.)

So, after reading all of the above, what did I believe? What did I internalize? Was I conservative or liberal? Atheist or Catholic?

I read it all, made note of it all, and deferred judgment until my life experiences would give me more to go on. I felt too sheltered and ignorant to judge the validity of any of it, and it would only be years later, after I worked as a reporter and saw some of the world, that I would make my decision.

Until then, it was time to take a break.

It was time to read some fun paperbacks.

It was time to read a series of Star Trek novels featuring Dr. McCoy (played by the memorable and inimitable DeForest Kelly in the original series and fist six movies)! It was time to read Doctor's Orders and Shadows on the Sun!

And boy were they fun!

Dr. McCoy is a sweet, pacifistic, gentlemanly, grouchy, funny, Southern fellow who acts like a regular guy, a Jimmy Stewart everyman, next to Captain Kirk's Burt Lancaster-style morally ambiguous tough-guy, and Spock's Sherlock Holmes' style sexism and ruthless logic. Dr. McCoy is my favorite, and boy was it fun to see him in the spotlight, especially since, at the time, the original series saga had just ended with the film Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. and my Star Trek was over.

So my Star Trek lived on in spin-off fiction, like Peter David's funny comic books, which featured an unlikely romance between Captain Kirk and feminist R. J. Blaise, and in novels by great women writers like Diane Duane, Diane Carey, and J.M. Dillard. (Interesting that, with the exception of Nicholas Meyer and Harlan Ellison, all of the best Trek writers are women ... especially Dorothy Fontana, the best of them all ... when the original Star Trek is, half the time, an action show for men with a tacked-on pacifist, multicultural message and, the other half of the time, actually kind of left-leaning, in its own, Kennedy-esque way.) So I took a week off of going to class and devoured ten Star Trek novels. I had bought them all years ago and never got around to reading them. They had once been hard for me to read, and it had once taken me several days to read each one. Now that I was a Plato veteran, I could slay a Trek novel in a few hours, enjoy the heck out of it, and move on to slay another.

My roommate, Aragorn O'Donnell, would come in, fresh from either class or APO, and shake his head at me.

"Are you still in bed?"

"Yep."

"Reading a new Trek novel I see."

"One you like, Aragorn. Final Frontier. About Kirk's dad."

"Well, I'm glad you got around to reading it after me suggesting it to you for five years." (By the way, Aragorn was named after a character from Lord of the Rings. His parent's liked the book too much, and so did he. His favorite character was Aragorn. He also looked a bit like Joachim Phoenix.)

"It is great, but it is no Doctor's Orders, let me tell you."

"You and Dr. McCoy. He's no Kirk."

"Kirk can't tie Dr. McCoy's shoes," I pronounced.

"But shouldn't you be going to class?"

"Class? What's that?"

"You're grades would be better if you went."

"I have an A- average," I said.

"You could have an A average."

"Not with Olansky. He gave the valedictorian an A- and ruined her 4.0."

"You might still get an A from him."

"Or I might stay home, read a Trek novel, and go back to class next week, and get an A- and be a happier person for taking a mental health day."

"Whatever, Marc," Aragorn said. He then went off to an APO meeting.

After reading a few more Trek novels, I announced to Aragorn. "It is time."

"For what?" he asked, looking up from his homework, and looking very much like Joachim Phoenix.

"I'm writing a Star Trek short story of my own."

"You know, you're in college. You have homework and drinking to do."

"Bah," I said. "There's a writing contest. Strange New Worlds. The company that published Trek fiction is offering to print stories by unpublished writers. Only ten will be chosen and about ten thousand will submit their entries. Mine will win."

"You sound sure of it."

"I am," I declared. "I will win."

"You haven't written the story yet."

"But I will win. And I have an idea, too. There have been several Trek stories where the Enterprise crew have to defend a Ghandi-like figure, or avenge the assassination of a Martin-Luther-King type. But what if they were forced to protect, or avenge, a world leader whose politics offended them to the very core of their being? What if they were assigned to avenge the assassination of a George Wallace type?"

"Okay. Sounds provocative," Aragorn admitted.

"I have another idea. A Quincy-style murder mystery with Dr. McCoy as the hero."

"You and Dr. McCoy."

I raised a dramatic finger. "Aha! I've got it!"

"What?"

"I'll combine both story ideas into one."

I got around to writing the story a year later, after returning from my trip to Italy, and worked Siena, Italy, into the story idea as well. To this day, I rather like the idea, even if the writing style is a bit ... undergraduate.

It didn't win the contest, by the way.

Here it is ... my Trek short story, which takes place after Shadows on the Sun, Star Trek VI, and Best Destiny. And I even included a character that Peter David wrote into his comic book, Sara Tuchinsky (who is, presumably, a real person?!?) Enjoy...

Star Trek: A More Perfect Union

A story dedicated to the memory of DeForest Kelly.

By Marc DiPaolo

Doctor McCoy knelt beside the body of President Gwyneth Voss, noting grimly that his medical tricorder registered no brain activity. She was lying facedown on the cold marble floor in front of Il Torre palace’s massive entrance-hall staircase, which she had fallen down mere moments before. The freshly awakened Kirk and Spock stood beside McCoy, their tired minds rapidly coming to the conclusion that the chief executive had been pushed to her death by her vice president, Edmund Badler, who stared numbly down on the scene from the top of the stairway.

“Is she dead?” The innocent look of shock plastered on the vice president’s face was made all the more credible by his uncharacteristically ridiculous striped pajamas.

Kirk swore under his breath. There was no way they could have acted any sooner. The sound of the fall had been loud enough to jolt him from his light sleep. Not even stopping to throw a robe over his bare chest, he had jumped out of bed, flung the bedroom door open, and raced out of his room, meeting Spock in the hall shortly before the groggy McCoy had emerged from his guest room and stumbled after them. They were on the scene of President Voss’ fall an instant later, but it was already too late.

Only now were palace lights going on around them as the rest of the residents were emerging from their rooms to investigate. A male servant appeared on the second floor hall beside Badler and cried out in alarm upon seeing Voss. Badler warned the servant to keep back and promptly did just the opposite by creeping down the stairs himself. Descending cautiously, he brushed his unkempt hair back over his pointed ears, reminding Kirk that the twenty-two-year-old man was as much Vulcan as human. As the first baby born on this planet, Badler had come to symbolize Bifrost’s dream of a perfect cultural union between the peoples of Earth and Vulcan. Even now, after having been discovered towering over the body of a dead woman, he acted with the poise of a Vulcan and the sensitivity of a human.

“What happened?” Though Kirk was staring directly up at Badler as he spoke, the question was directed just as much to Spock and McCoy as to the official.

Badler stopped halfway down the stairs, a respectful distance from the dead. “I couldn't sleep. I was going to the kitchen for some tea.”

“And then what?”

“I heard a sound,” said Badler. “I thought someone might be hurt and ran out to help….”

“You did not see her fall?” asked Spock.

“I saw no more than you.” Badler edged along the railing, stepping around the body when he reached the lower floor. “I know this all looks very bad, but I can assure you I didn’t push her.”

Quickly confirming that her neck had been broken in the fall, McCoy could feel her body heat melting away under his touch. A part of him was aware that she looked very feminine dressed in her silk nightgown, and his blue-gray eyes started to water.

“Bones?” asked Kirk.

McCoy failed to register Kirk’s question, so Spock ventured an observation. “Presumably, she was killed by a fall down the stairway. What caused the fall has yet to be determined.”

There were now eight servants at the top of the stairs, speaking to one another in hushed, agitated voices. Kirk realized it was only a matter of time before Voss’ husband was aroused by the commotion, and he didn’t want the man to stumble on the scene unprepared.

“Captain,” said Spock, “fifteen-point-seven seconds elapsed between the instant I heard the fall and the moment I raced into this chamber. That is more than enough time for an attacker to have pushed her and escaped down the second floor hallway.”

“He would have to have been as fast as lightning,” said Badler, “because I didn't see him.”

Kirk began to speak a question aloud, enunciating each word slowly and carefully. “Either way, accident or murder...”

Spock completed the thought. “Why did none of us hear a scream?”

“Exactly.”

McCoy slipped the tricorder into his robe and rose to his feet. “She didn't scream because the fall didn't kill her. She was already dead before she dropped down the stairs.”

McCoy was about to elaborate when a scream came from above. There was a flurry of movement and the sounds of heavy footfalls as a large, athletic figure raced down the steps, taking them two-by-two. The man dropped to the floor next to his wife and felt frantically for a pulse. Horror spread further across his face when he found none. Weeping, he scooped up the woman in his arms, catching her head with his hand before it lolled back.

No matter how much he wanted to look away, McCoy remained strangely transfixed by the scene. He had seen emotional displays of grief countless times before, but this was different. For one thing, it was not long ago that he was the one who held his dying love in his arms, cursing fate for stealing her away. For another, the man cradling Gwyneth Voss' body in his arms – her husband, Seh’dar – was a full-blooded Vulcan.

* * * *

Seh’dar thankfully accepted the glass of brandy from Dr. McCoy's grasp and sipped it to steady his nerves. He sat in an armchair in the drawing room adjacent to the main hall, listening to the sounds of his wife’s body being moved to the lower-level medical facilities by Enterprise crewmen. Vice President Badler, apparently still feeling awkward about being the first one to discover the body, remained quietly in the darkness in the corner of the room.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask when the last time you saw your wife alive was.” Now uniformed, Kirk sat across from Seh’dar and Spock stood impassively by his side.

The bereaved Vulcan's eyes seemed to lose their focus on the present as his thoughts drifted to the recent past. “We were in bed. She had a headache. She was going to get up for some medicine. I would have gotten up, but I was ... barely aware.” His mouth twitched oddly into an expression that was neither a smile nor a grimace. “Later on, it sank in that she was gone. I was worried about her, so I got up. I didn't hear anything until I got close to the stairs, and then I saw my wife, dead, on the floor.”

“Doctor McCoy thinks she may have died of a stroke,” said Kirk.

A disbelieving sigh escaped Seh'dar's lips. “She was only forty-three.”

“It is strange,” McCoy admitted, “but not unheard of. Did she ever complain that she was feeling unwell before this evening?”

“Not that I can recall,” said Seh'dar.

“Was she on any medication?”

“Some allergy pills that she takes during the winter. That's all. You'll find them upstairs.”

Vice President Badler finally felt comfortable enough to step forward and place a consoling hand on Seh'dar's shoulder. The Vulcan welcomed the gesture, shuddering only slightly at the discomfort of the physical contact. In the moment that Badler’s face came forth from the shadows, McCoy noticed again the vague resemblance between Badler and a young Jim Kirk. Badler's type handsome was just as boyish as Kirk’s, but his eyes and smile were far less playful. McCoy predicted that the subtle quality of harshness would gradually etch itself deeper into Badler’s face, making him tougher and meaner-looking with age.

“It pains me to say this at a time like this,” Badler said suddenly, “but there are certain protocols which must be observed from now on.”

Already understanding, Seh'dar nodded silently.

“Captain Kirk, I formally request that you, as the official representative of the United Federation of Planets, swear me in as President Voss' successor,” Badler said.

“What?” McCoy glowered. “Now? Her body isn't even cold!”

Badler folded his arms in front of his chest, challenging the Starfleet men with his regal stance. “If Bifrost is to remain a stable planet, it must always have a president.”

“Doctor,” said Spock. “I must point out that Mr. Badler's interpretation of planetary law is correct. He must be sworn in at the next convenient moment.”

Seh'dar stood up and placed the empty glass on the table beside him. “Yes. The transition must be smooth and swift. The people will need us to be strong for them.”

The eagerness that McCoy saw in Badler seemed all the more acute when the vice president consulted his wrist chronometer. “Captain, I will take only a few moments to groom myself. I would appreciate it if you met me in the president's office in twenty minutes.”

Seh'dar slipped quickly between Kirk and Badler, moving towards the hall. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have to tell my children what has happened.”

****

Edmund Badler, the fourth president of the United Federation of Planets' colony world Bifrost, was sworn into office with a reporter, a company of Enterprise crewmen, and representatives of the Voss Administration on hand as witnesses. Standing behind Badler was Seh’dar and his two children. Mina Voss, his six-year-old daughter, kept her red, tear-stained face looking down at the floor. The boy of fifteen, Joshua, directed a cold, steady gaze at the upstart vice president, clenching and unclenching his fists. Once the oath of office was taken, Badler attempted to lighten the heavy atmosphere with a firm handshake and a gracious smile. “Thank you, Captain Kirk. Your professionalism and sensitivity in this difficult time has helped us all.”

The warmth seemed sincere enough, but Kirk wondered how cordial Badler would have been if a reporter hadn’t been present.

It was not long before President Badler’s office was cleared of everyone save Kirk, Spock, and Badler himself.

The new president stood awkwardly at the center of the room, displaying a sudden reluctance to claim the vacant executive seat behind Gwyneth Voss’ desk. “I assume you have something to say to me, gentlemen.” “You know that the Klingon Ambassador and I were in the middle of critical negotiations with President Voss about the future of this world. As a Federation ambassador, I'm afraid I cannot leave until certain issues are resolved.” Kirk had paused several times in the middle of his sentences, weighing each phrase carefully before uttering it. The captain’s earnestness did not fail to make an impression on President Badler, who seemed to be suddenly aware of the weight of responsibility that had settled on his shoulders.

“Namely, The Voss Declaration of Secession,” said Badler. He looked down on what was now his desk. Still sitting freshly atop its surface was the declaration President Voss had drawn up to officially break Bifrost’s ties with the Federation. She died before signing it.

“I don’t expect an answer tonight, of course,” said Kirk.

The president tilted his head thoughtfully to one side, as if trying to recall something. “`Each morning when I wake up and look at myself in the mirror, I have to forgive myself for not being George Washington. The only way I can keep forgiving myself is if I always try to act in the best interests of my people, my conscience, and my God. Reconciling the demands of all three is an impossible task, but it is a goal I will never stop trying to reach.’”

“Is that a quote?” asked Kirk.

“President Voss said it in her address three months ago, on the eve of this colony's twenty-second anniversary,” explained Badler. “She was a remarkable woman.”

“She seemed so,” Kirk said slowly, not knowing where the conversation was heading.

“In the general election two days ago, sixty-five percent of the planet voted in favor of her agenda. They agreed it would be better to break away from the Federation than to allow it to establish a Klingon refugee colony on our soil.”

“The Federation does not want to lose Bifrost,” said Kirk. “But there are so few other locations to move these refugees. If this planet rejects them, the others will surely follow suit. And then, these refugees will be without a real home.”

“That is why I am in an unenviable position.” President Badler snatched the Act of Secession from the desk and held it before Kirk's face. “If I tear this up, I will be defying the will of the people, disrupting Bifrost’s mission charter, and spitting on the memory of a beloved president.”

“Yes, you will be,” Kirk said. “You will also be preserving a very important union between Bifrost and the Federation and you will be offering aid to a people in dire trouble.”

The president exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'd be a fool to veto this, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t know it.”

“Come on, Kirk! What do you care if I sign this or not? Either way, you're out of here in the next day or so, leaving me behind – alone – to face the consequences.”

“History will remember the role you'll play in forging a lasting peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire,” Kirk replied.

Badler laughed. “Excellent! I can be the most beloved one-term president of all time, especially if the refugees decide to take the whole planet for themselves.”

“That’s absurd.”

“You know, Voss was not afraid of a military clash with the Klingons. What she really feared was the Klingons who came to our world with their families. Slow, friendly colonization is the real way to take over a planet. That’s a lesson the Native Americans learned all too well after they made foreign settlers welcome.”

“What does this mean?” asked Kirk. “Are you saying you’ll sign the declaration?”

President Badler walked deliberately around the desk and lowered himself into the seat. “I believe it is a mistake to secede.”

“Then tear up that declaration and let some good come out of tonight’s horrible event.”

The president laced his fingers together on his lap and pushed the chair back into a reclining position. “Perhaps.”

****

Like the rest of the planet Bifrost, Gwyneth Voss' bedroom was a historical study in itself. A mix of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europe, its decor was rich in elegant fabrics – velvet curtains, silk bed sheets, and lace decorations – that would seem frivolous to the primarily functional sensibilities of modern-day Earth. The plush surroundings appealed to Kirk, who himself preferred the earthiness of wooden furniture to glass tables and plastic chairs. He, Spock, and McCoy had entered the room with Seh'dar's blessing to obtain Gwyneth's pills. McCoy found them quickly enough, slipping them into his trouser pocket.

“I'll be sure to test these while I'm downstairs,” said the doctor.

Though there was nothing else keeping him from the examination room, he felt compelled to linger and investigate the bedroom with his comrades. There was so little he knew about Gwyneth Voss. Before last week, he didn't even know she existed.

McCoy noticed immediately that Seh’dar was strangely absent from the plethora of family photos hanging on the walls. And, after briefly perusing the president’s bedside bookshelf – which contained 1984, A Man for All Seasons, and The Stepford Wives – Spock pronounced that her library was comprised entirely of political tragedies concerning the social establishment’s defeat of an idealistic iconoclast. Kirk was drawn immediately to the bedroom's most provocative decoration - a wooden ventriloquist's dummy dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. The doll sat, partly slumped over, atop a wooden clothes chest at the foot of the bed. “I haven't seen one of these in years.”

McCoy couldn't help but smile at the strange object. “Gwyneth liked to entertain her children with that doll.”

Spock arched his right eyebrow. “Indeed?”

McCoy nodded. “She spoke kind of quiet about it when she told me, like she was sharing a little secret. She said it was a dark day for Badler when the political cartoonists found out about her `talent for animating lifeless wooden men.'”

Kirk gave McCoy a quizzical look. “When did you two have time to make small talk like that?”

McCoy shrugged. “In-between her debates with you and Spock she'd come talk to me. I guess she felt comfortable speaking to me about regular, ordinary things … you know, other than secession.”

Spock seemed about to say something, but cast his eyes warily on McCoy and stopped himself.

“What?” asked McCoy.

“Doctor McCoy, I admire you for placing your respect for life above all things,” said Spock. “However, because you are so sensitive to human suffering, it is sometimes difficult to speak freely before you without offending your sensibilities.”

McCoy placed his fists against his hips and glared back at Spock. “I know what you're gonna say, Spock. You're gonna say that President Voss' death, though tragic, could be a great boon to both us and the Klingons, right?”

“Which is what makes the timing of her death so convenient for her political adversaries, and so suspicious in my eyes,” Spock replied. “I am almost convinced that Voss was assassinated, but I will reserve judgement at least until you have had a chance to carefully examine her body.”

McCoy’s angry expression softened. “You may have a point. I’ll get right on it.”

****

Over the years, McCoy had visited dozens of civilizations that had molded themselves after past Earth societies, but the city of New Siena struck him as a particularly impressive replica of the Medieval metropolis of Siena, Italy. The stone-walled capital looked strangely beautiful in the darkness. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between powerfully built brown homes that seemed as old and sturdy as if they had actually been built in eleventh-century Tuscany. Il Torre Palace, the home of the Bifrost presidents, was a broad, rectangular castle with a massive bell tower rising out of its left side. It was modeled after the original Palazzo Pubblico – built centuries ago as the seat of government of the ancient Republic of Siena.

McCoy stood in the courtyard outside the presidential estate, just beyond the yellow barricades that Chekov had set up, nursing a mint julep in his right hand. While it was a strange time for McCoy to have a drink – it had been two hours since he pronounced President Voss dead, it would be another three before sunrise – he needed it. He didn't feel tired because he was fueled by nervous energy, but he realized sleep would soon become a necessity.

McCoy instinctively sensed Spock approaching from behind. Although Spock had never said as much, McCoy was absolutely certain that the spiritual link between them was never fully severed after Spock’s resurrection, since he could still feel Spock alive within him even though he no longer carried Spock’s spirit, or katra. He was always able to sense it when Spock was close, and he sometimes even had a feel for the Vulcan's state of mind. He also knew that, if he lived to see Spock die again, he would feel it with more poignancy than any pain he ever felt before, because a part of his soul would die with Spock. Spock stood wordlessly by McCoy's side and joined the doctor in his contemplation of the cityscape. Through the quiet of the sleeping city, the two men could hear the faint nocturnal chirps of Bifrost’s insect life. McCoy found the sounds strangely comforting.

“Beyond the borders of New Siena, there are numerous other landscapes and settlements molded from human and Vulcan civilizations of the past,” Spock said.

“They seem to have this one pegged pretty good, if the pictures I've seen of the original Siena are accurate,” McCoy replied.

“This world,” Spock began thoughtfully, “above all others in the Federation, has preoccupied me.”

Now it was McCoy’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You never said anything before.”

“A Federation colony with a population that is half-human and half-Vulcan.” Although there was no audible impatience in the statement, McCoy sensed it nevertheless, and felt foolish for not making the connection sooner. Still, there had been a lot on his mind lately.

“Oh, of course. Well, it is a fascinating idea.” Spock nodded. “Two vastly different cultures occupying the same planet, trying to reconcile their differences, learn from one another's strengths, and grow beyond their mutual limitations.”

Clasping his hands behind his back and looking up at the stars, McCoy unconsciously copied Spock's stance. “Well, if they're half as successful in the task as you have been, Spock, then they're in good shape.”

Spock stiffened only slightly at the unexpected compliment. “From what I have heard, they have done well so far. There has been a great deal of intermarriage and almost no racial incidents. The humans have grown more sober and pragmatic, the Vulcans more emotional and artistic. I would be curious to see how this world progresses, with or without a Klingon social presence.”

****

Captain's Log, Stardate 9583.7:

No one was happier than I was when the Enterprise was granted a reprieve from retirement after the Roy Moss incident. But now it seems as if this ship and its crew have staved off decommission only to bear witness to a succession of untimely deaths.

First Dr. McCoy’s wife Jocelyn and now Gwyneth Voss. I’ve seen hundreds of people killed during my time in Starfleet, but somehow ...somehow it’s always worse when it’s a woman.

Mr. Spock and I have returned to the Enterprise to issue a full report to Starfleet.

Dr. McCoy is on the planet below, continuing his own investigation into President Voss’ death. His discovery of Lexorin in her bloodstream has raised some alarming questions that need answering.

Hopefully a meeting with her personal physician – an old associate of McCoy’s, Gabriel Manzoni – will make things clearer.

In a few moments, I will be meeting with the Klingon Ambassador in his quarters to inform him of recent events…

The Klingon Ambassador didn't even look up from his cooking, but continued to stir what looked like a plate of moving seaweed over the oven flame in his quarters aboard the Enterprise.

“What would you have me say, Kirk? That I am sorry she is dead?” The Ambassador raised a hand from the cooking pan to cut off Kirk's response. “No, I am not sorry. She was a bigger bigot than even you ever were. She would rather have seen all of the refugees of the Praxis disaster die than offer them safe haven on this planet.”

The Ambassador paused to add a spice to the writhing mass of tentacles he called an early breakfast. Although it had been frying under a high flame for several minutes, the heat had not yet killed whatever it was that was cooking. “She threatened to withdraw this planet from the Federation if it forced her to bend to its demands. If that is not racial hatred of the highest order, I do not know what is.”

“And she insulted you, personally,” said Kirk.

Kirk could not tell if the Klingon curled his lips up into a smile or a snarl. “That was the most honorable thing she did in my presence, Kirk. Her defense of you was sheer poetry.”

“I want you to know I didn't ask for it.”

The Klingon scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at Kirk. “Its not important. She is not the first person to throw my words back in my face since Camp Kittimer.”

This did not surprise Kirk at all. A grand statement like “There will be no peace as long as Kirk lives” does not easily pass into history.

“We've all said things we've wished we could take back. I've been quoted back to myself several times lately. I've rarely liked the sound of my own words.”

The meal completed, the Ambassador emptied the contents of the frying pan onto a plate and brought the dish over to his dining table. “Your galley cooks and your food dispensers could never do justice to this dish, Kirk. It is only palatable when served live.”

Kirk stood a respectful distance from the table, allowing the Ambassador to begin eating. “The new president opposes any notion of Bifrost breaking away from the Federation, but we don’t know how committed he really is to helping your people.”

“Wishful thinking, Kirk. Badler will either bow to the demands of his people or be replaced by someone who will.”

****

In the three days since the Enterprise had entered orbit around Bifrost, McCoy had only had two opportunities to walk along the streets of its capital city. The sun was close to rising on day four, and he found himself strolling along the winding, hilly streets in search of Doctor Manzoni. He and his former classmate had agreed to meet by a statue of Garibaldi on Main Street, but the problem now was finding it.

McCoy noted with muted interest that the street he traveled along had grown so narrow that he could touch buildings on either side simply by raising his arms laterally. Six yards further downhill, he came upon a crimson banner pasted up on his right that read "Protect Freedom: Vote Secession." It was left over from the election earlier in the week. Irksome-yet-useful, he remembered the slogan from before and used it as a landmark to find Main Street.

Three turns later, McCoy linked up with the walled city's pivotal roadway, finding with some surprise that absolutely nobody was walking about. The contrast between New Siena at 5 a.m. and at 5 p.m. was staggering. The last time he had seen this wide path was immediately after the away team had first beamed down to Bifrost’s surface. It seemed like ages ago simply because so much had happened since then… Transport had been more disorientating than usual because Sara, the transporter chief, had once again energized the beam without giving McCoy proper warning. Caught in mid-sentence, he had the wonderful pleasure of feeling his mouth dissolve and reassemble as he spoke. The rest of the statement begun on the transporter pad tumbled out on the threshold of Main Street before McCoy could stop it: “… cash it in right now. Oh, for Pete's sake! Just one time, I wish that woman would give me a proper warning.”

McCoy tested his jaw to see if it was okay. One small mercy was that he didn’t catch sight of it happening to himself this time. He hated that part of the beaming experience more than anything else. “Stuff like this never happens when Scotty runs the transporter,” McCoy complained. “That’s it. I don’t care that she’s been with this Enterprise since its maiden voyage - I’m not letting her transport me ever again.”

Kirk had smiled playfully back at his chief medical officer. “Have it your way, Bones.”

Once recovered from the sudden jolt, McCoy had realized that they were all standing at the edge of Main Street, where throngs of people were walking about and none of them seemed to be headed anywhere in particular.

“Let me guess,” said Kirk to Spock. “Passegiata.” “What's this?” asked McCoy, not wanting to attempt to pronounce the word Kirk had used.

“It's an old Italian social ritual,” responded Spock. “In self-contained cities like Siena on Earth, the entire population goes out for an evening walk in the hopes of casually encountering friends and family members. It is a means of maintaining a sense of community and preventing the city from growing impersonal.”

Why am I always the only one who doesn't know about these things? McCoy had thought.

They stood at the threshold of the street, watching as wave upon wave of people flowed by. Twice McCoy tried to step out into the street, but each time he felt overwhelmed by the crowd.

“How can anyone be social in this?” asked McCoy. “It looks like a goddamned stampede.”

“Look,” Kirk pointed. “Isn’t that her?”

McCoy followed Kirk's gaze and caught his first glimpse of President Gwyneth Voss. Dressed in a simple white blouse and a pair of slacks, she was socializing with the people on the street while moving in their general direction. The lines on her face gave her a classy, respectable beauty, and her shoulder-length brown hair had so far managed to stave off any trace of gray. McCoy couldn’t help but take instantly to the easy way in which she interacted with the ordinary people. She put on no airs at all. She was like Jim on the bridge of the Enterprise.

But that was three days ago. In the time that had elapsed since then, Voss had died and Badler had risen to succeed her. The very same street McCoy had first seen her striding confidently along amidst the crowd was now empty and silent. But not for long.

“Leo!” The scheduled appearance of Gabriel Manzoni was an agreeable one, bringing back more pleasant memories of years gone by.

“How are you, Gabriel?” McCoy shook Gabriel’s hand and quickly looked over the man he hadn’t seen in seven years. The strong, chiseled jaw had softened, the stomach had filled out and the hair had thinned, but Gabriel nevertheless looked remarkably good for his age.

“Okay, under the circumstances, Leo. It's really good to see you.” He gestured towards the road ahead. “Shall we walk?”

“Sure.”

The two started off along the level ground as the sky started to lighten several shades of blue.

“I heard about Jocelyn,” Gabriel said hesitantly, “and I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry.”

“Thanks. Now, don’t say anything more about it. It's bad enough that Jim and Spock have been walking on eggshells around me the past two months. I don't need you doing the same.”

“I promise I won’t, Leo.”

McCoy nodded. “Good.”

“You wanted to know about the Lexorin in the president’s blood?”

“Yes. Where did it come from? The pills were clearly for her allergies, as Seh’dar said.”

“I gave her heavy doses of Lexorin each night for the past four nights.”

“Why?”

“I was asked to keep it a secret, but I guess it'll all have to come out now.”

“Would you stop being cryptic already and just spit it out?”

Gabriel gave a resigned shrug. “Okay. Four nights ago, I got an emergency call from her husband to go to the palace. When I got there, I found her thrashing about on her bed screaming and shouting.”

“Was it some kind of seizure?”

Gabriel licked his lips thoughtfully. “It wasn’t that exactly. She kept yelling snatches of political speeches and slogans. The funny thing was she seemed to be debating herself, taking both sides of every issue. I’d heard stories that Bobby Fischer used to like to play against himself at chess, and it was like she was doing the same thing with political rhetoric.” “What was she yelling about?”

“Not surprisingly, Klingon refugees and secession. One minute, she'd yell something about why the Federation was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and the next she'd talk about how important it was for Bifrost to break away and forge its own destiny. She was saying a lot of stuff about wanting perfect union between humans and Vulcans and not letting the Klingons mess that up.”

McCoy massaged his jaw thoughtfully. “Did it seem like there were really two distinct personalities arguing the points?”

“Yes, it did. It really did.”

Just then, they came across the overlook at the edge of the fortress-like city, where a waist-high wall was all that stood between them and a hundred-foot plummet to the ground. The sky was still too dark for the men to see more than a few yards beyond the city limits, so the spectacular view of lush, Earth-like greenery that could be seen from the overlook during the daylight hours was now little more than a veil of murky black soup. Gabriel stopped walking and seated himself atop the wall, instantly giving McCoy paranoid visions of his friend toppling backwards into the abyss and cracking open on the ground like an Italian Humpty Dumpty.

“She had another fit the next night,” Gabriel continued. “After that, she seemed to get a little better, but I gave her some more medicine to prevent a relapse. It was horrible, because she was perfectly healthy before last week.”

“Why didn't she have one of those fits during her negotiations with Jim and the Klingon Ambassador?” “I don't know. Outwardly, at least, she was always fine during the day. I have no idea what was going on in her head while she was at those meetings.”

“If you knew about this, where were you last night?”

“I was called away,” Manzoni said. “An old man who lives nearby almost had his arm cut off in a freak accident. I was busy saving his life.”

McCoy shook his head sadly. “You should have warned me about her condition. If I had known ahead of time, I might have been more alert.”

“No, I couldn't have contacted you. Seh'dar pleaded with me not to tell anybody. He didn't want me to embarrass the president.”

“Well, there's no danger of her feeling embarrassed now, is there?”

“Don’t take it out on me!” Gabriel snapped. “It’s not my business to go around advertising privileged medical information about public figures. If anyone should have told you, it was her husband!”

“Gabriel, listen to me,” McCoy said quietly, holding his hand up for emphasis. “I’ve got some fairly strong suspicions about President Voss’ death. If I’m right, then I know from personal experience it’s a horrible way to go.”

Gabriel frowned. “That sounds pretty ominous there, Leo.”

“Don’t ask me to explain yet. It may not be too healthy for you to know any more than you do. I’ll tell you after things quiet down a little bit.”

Gabriel would have protested, but he reconsidered when he saw the look on McCoy’s face. “Okay, I’ll go home for now.”

McCoy soberly shook his fellow doctor’s hand goodbye. “You be careful, now. Don’t tell anybody we talked about any of this.”

“I won’t.” Without another word, Gabriel started off down the street, his feet moving quickly, his head lowered to the ground. A minute later, the shadows swallowed him up and the sounds of his footsteps disappeared into the distance.

Finding himself alone, McCoy felt a sudden warmth well up inside him. He knew people were supposed to feel cold when they were afraid, but it was different for him. At the moment, he was probably the only person who had a clear idea what was happening, and that realization made him feel anxious and vulnerable - especially walking about a strange city in the dark. It was time to get the hell out of there.

McCoy stepped away from the wall and pulled the communicator from his belt.

That was when he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

“Doctor McCoy, I would like a word with you.”

****

Checking first to make sure no one on the bridge was watching, Kirk yawned silently into his hand. Only twenty minutes sleep in the past thirty-seven hours did not make for a very well rested Iowa farm boy, and he found himself falling asleep in his captain’s chair.

Kirk swiveled around in his black command seat to regard his communications officer. “Uhura, any word from McCoy?”

“No, sir. Shall I contact him for you?”

“No, that’s fine. I’m going to go get some sleep. Can you wake me if the doctor calls with any news?”

“Yes, Captain.”

McCoy lowered his communicator and frowned at Seh’dar, wondering how any man, even a Vulcan, could kill his own wife.

“I overheard your conversation with Dr. Manzoni,” said Seh’dar. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Beads of sweat started to appear at McCoy’s temples. He decided to lie and wondered if he could pull it off. “Why, yes. I think President Badler killed Gwyneth.”

“My son suspects the same thing. Was he that desperate to be president?”

“No. He didn’t intend to kill her.”

Seh’dar raised his eyebrow in a Spock-like fashion. “Really?”

“You see,” McCoy swallowed, “all he wanted to do was prevent her from signing the Act of Secession.”

“How did that desire result in her death?”

McCoy knew it would be wiser to continue the charade, but somehow he couldn’t stomach it any more. He was too angry. “You tell me,” challenged McCoy. “It was a Vulcan mind-meld, wasn’t it?”

Seh’dar’s eyes darkened. “How could a mind-meld be responsible for Gwyneth’s death?”

The anger was giving McCoy courage enough to continue, even at the risk of provoking the imperious Vulcan to action. “I know that Vulcans can use them to pull memories from people’s minds – sometimes forcibly. It’s also possible for the mind-meld to change people’s perceptions, to hypnotize them. And when Spock thought he was going to die, he planted his memories and personality in my head through a mind-meld.”

“I had heard that you once carried Spock’s katra.”

“Spock’s spiritual presence was so powerful it almost swallowed me whole,” McCoy said. “I fought so hard to keep control of my own thoughts and actions I almost went completely bonkers. To keep me stable, Jim gave me doses of Lexorin. Just like you called in Dr. Manzoni to give your wife Lexorin!” McCoy’s voice shook with outrage. “Did she know what you were doing to her?”

Seh’dar stared back at McCoy as if the doctor had grown a second head. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“You probably entered her thoughts as she slept – like a voice in a dream, coaxing her to change her mind and welcome the Klingons.”

“A few moments ago you said Badler was responsible. Now you’re saying I did something to my wife?”

“Never mind what I said about Badler. You killed her.”

Seh’dar’s body coiled like a snake’s. “You’re completely unhinged.”

“I suppose you didn’t mean to kill her,” McCoy continued. “She was no good to you dead – there was no guarantee Badler would act any different as president. In some ways, he is just as conservative as she was.”

McCoy took a bold step forward, but Seh’dar stood his ground. “You manipulated that poor woman. You spoke through her like a ventriloquist through a wooden doll. Your thoughts in her mind! Your voice through her mouth! But she wasn’t a doll! She was a human being.”

Seh’dar glared back at McCoy in silence.

“But she was too strong for you, wasn’t she?” asked McCoy. “She never submitted to your influence in public. Not for an instant. Her mind stayed dominant long enough for her to tell us all where to get off. Well, it’s no wonder she couldn’t take the pressure. The inner conflict was so intense it caused the stroke that killed her.”

McCoy paused, eyeing his opponent warily. “You know what really gets me, you green-blooded monster? She was your wife! Didn’t you have any feelings for her?”

“I loved my wife.”

“Well, I don’t understand how you could kill your own wife over politics. But then again, I’ve never found politics to be all that important. I’m just an old country doctor. Helping people is all that matters to me.”

“That is exactly what I’m doing,” Seh’dar said quietly. “I am helping hundreds of Klingons at the cost of one life. I can live with that cost. But I wish she hadn’t fought me. If she had merely acquiesced, she’d still be alive. I wasn’t asking much of her. All I wanted to do was make her act logically and morally.”

“Was it logical and moral to fry her brain?” McCoy cried.

Suddenly, Seh’dar came to life, charging his adversary. McCoy’s hand dove for his phaser, but it was too late. Seh’dar seized McCoy with steel-like fingers, hoisting him into the air, and pushing the doctor’s flailing body over the top of the waist-high overlook wall. McCoy tried to struggle, but his enraged, Vulcan-blooded opponent completely physically outclassed him. As Seh’dar held him dangling in the air over the abyss, all McCoy could do was look down at the hundred-foot drop below. The trees looked so far away.

“Nothing personal, doctor,” Seh’dar said calmly. “You just know too much.”

Then Seh’dar let McCoy drop.

On board the Enterprise, Spock felt a sudden rush of overwhelming anxiety.

McCoy.

At the moment McCoy fell, he flung both arms out and grabbed desperately for something to hold onto. He latched onto Seh’dar’s shoulder and arm, and held on with a strength he didn’t know he had, pulling Seh’dar over the edge with him. Seh’dar let out a surprised cry as he found himself falling to his death alongside his victim.

McCoy felt himself screaming as the ground beneath him raced closer. He tried to push himself away from Seh’dar as they plummeted, but the enraged Vulcan caught McCoy by the throat. McCoy stared up into Seh’dar’s soulless eyes, realizing that the final face he was going to see before dying was his killer’s.

In the last moment of life he had left, McCoy hurled a wild punch at the side of Seh’dar’s head. As his fist streaked toward its target, he saw it disappear into a billion pinpricks of yellow light.

****

Realizing what was about to happen, Spock pushed Captain Kirk away from the transporter pad. McCoy and Seh’dar flashed into existence above them and came streaking down from the platform. Carried by the momentum of their fall down below, they continued sailing through the air, screaming in fear and fury. The two men spun end over end, slamming with a harsh crack against the transporter room controls.

Sparks flew through the air, burning the transporter chief’s fingers before she could jump backwards.

A moment later, all was quiet.

Kirk placed his right hand on the transporter platform and pulled himself to his feet. “How did you know, Spock?”

“I heard Doctor McCoy call for help.” Spock carefully approached the tangled mass of limbs to see if McCoy had survived the fall.

When McCoy rolled over onto his back, the first thing he saw through a fuzzy haze of blurred vision was the transporter chief – her round, sweet face a picture of concern.

“Are you okay, doctor?” Sara asked.

McCoy could barely keep his eyes open, but he managed a weak smile. “Sara, my dear,” he slurred, “I could kiss you.”

Then he lost consciousness.

****

Carrying a bouquet of flowers under his arm, Captain Kirk walked into sickbay four hours later to find Doctor McCoy awake and on the mend. Spock was already by McCoy’s side, as he had been since the doctor was snatched from death’s grasp.

Kirk casually tossed the flowers in McCoy’s lap. “Here you go, doctor. A little `get well’ gift from Sara. She’d have delivered them personally, but she’s on duty another hour.”

McCoy picked them up and looked at them with vague interest. “I guess this means no hard feelings for all the times I called her incompetent.”

“She did a superb job,” said Spock. “As soon as it occurred to me that the president was killed by a Vulcan mind-meld, I aroused the captain and suggested that we return the planet to question Seh’dar. We were just about to transport to when I sensed your distress and told Sara to beam you up immediately. She had been tracking you all along and responded to my command within .76 seconds.”

“Spock, how in the hell can you calculate .76 seconds?” McCoy moved his head too much and felt a deep stab of pain. “Ow! Damn it.”

Kirk moved forward. “Are you okay?”

“The doctor has suffered three broken ribs and a fractured wrist,” pronounced Spock.

“Then you’re better off than your attacker,” Kirk said to McCoy. “Seh’dar died in the fall from the transporter pad, breaking his neck against the control bank.”

Kirk found McCoy’s expression uncharacteristically unreadable at that moment, so he continued. “You might like to know that Bifrost has officially chosen to remain a member planet of the Federation. President Badler has just begun negotiations with the Klingon Ambassador to establish a refugee colony in one of the less populated regions. And Badler also tells me he’s going to give you a commendation for solving President Voss’ murder.”

McCoy waved the news away. “I don’t want any damned commendation. I didn’t do anything special. Spock practically figured it out at the same time I did anyway.”

“I’d love to stand here and argue with you, but Spock and I have to return to the surface and continue the negotiations.” Kirk turned away and headed towards the door. “You get better, Bones.”

The sickbay doors whooshed open and Kirk stepped out into the hall. Spock started to follow but hesitated in the doorway when McCoy called after him, “Spock?”

“Yes?”

McCoy’s bright blue eyes glinted. “Thanks.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in the closest thing to a smile he would ever give McCoy. “My pleasure, doctor.”

War Games: Chess

2007-05-20T00:04:00.001-05:00

There was a ninth-grade English teacher in my Richmond County school who insisted that students begin their essays with the phrase "In literature as in life..." and then go on to make some grand connection between the two. This policy was seriously annoying to the woman who taught 10th grade English because she inherited her students from that class, and they all thought that the proper way to begin an essay was with the words "In literature as in life." Fed up with it all, at the first sign of those evil words in a given essay, she would fail the student on the spot.

Recently, I have taken to playing chess, and while I have always known which way the pieces moved, I never developed any real game strategy. The more I learn about the game, the more I have been thinking about how appropriate it would be to begin an article on chess with the truism "in chess as in life..." because the way a person plays chess says a lot about that person's lifestyle.

Picture a guy playing chess who develops his position slowly and carefully. He takes a long time to put the bishops and knights into the open because he doesn't want to expose them to the other side too soon. If his knight is attacked by an enemy knight, he thinks only of running and not making a trade. A psychologist could make a lot of observations about this man based on his strategy. He's someone who does not like to take a lot of risks. He makes decisions carefully, after a lot of thought. He does not like to lose and is more concerned with preventing loss than achieving victory.

At the other extreme is the unrelenting player, who goes into direct attack the moment the game begins, going as far as sacking some of his own pieces just to get a good position from which to launch an assault. This player never hesitates to make a trade-off, losing one piece to capture an enemy piece of equal value. This player doesn't even mind trading queens at the start of the game. If one had dealings with this person in day-to-day life, one would find that his behavior is the same away from the chessboard as it is sitting at it. This is a gregarious risk-taker who wins bigger and loses bigger than his cautious counterpart, who risks little and neither wins nor loses much.

There are as many examples of the connection between strategy and personality as there are types of people. My grandfather, a chemistry major in college who had a very meticulous mind played chess in a way that was all clever tactics. He used intellectual strategies such as pins to limit enemy movements and nail pieces down. Meanwhile, someone who has lapses in concentration in class or while driving will have a lapse of concentration in the middle of a chess match that his enemy will exploit. (Assuming he doesn't get into a car crash on the way to the tournament.)

The best way to improve your chess game is to have someone show you where you're going wrong. How is a beginner supposed to know that it is critical to seize the center of the board as early in the game as possible if he isn't taught this? The same thing is true of life. A bad idea left uncorrected forces a person to make the same mistake over and over, still wondering what keeps going wrong.

The same mistake I always made was I sent the queen out way too early. I sent her charging into battle all by herself, without any backup support from the rest of the pieces. For those of you who don't know, the queen is the most powerful piece in the army, and one should not use her recklessly like that. Shortly afterward, my opponent would casually capture my queen with his bishop (it was almost always a bishop) and I would be defenseless when he launched a counter-attack. Why? Because all of my men were still stuck, undeveloped, behind a blockade of pawns, and my best piece was out of the game. And, aside from the tremendous, possibly unwinnable tactical advantage my opponent has at this point, I am also now too psyched out to even really offer a challenge. I convince myself it is hopeless, that I made a colossal blunder, and I melt without even giving my opponent much of a challenge.

Queen's dead? I'm dead, too.

Those who know me well in real life know that, as in chess, I'm bold initially, but I don't do very well once I suffer my first major setback. It takes a lot of sulking and licking of wounds before I rally for another attempt at ... whatever it is I was attempting to do when I got housed.

Though I discovered all this on my own, this is not news to veteran chess players who have played for years and read books like The Psychology of Chess. In fact, veterans would probably find this post self-evident, inaccurate, and just-plain-silly. Still, I may as well finish it at this point ...

Any way, the reason that the game is so intricate and complex is that it is a reflection of the human thought process, and that is the key to its enduring appeal and infinite variety.

P.S. - AND chess is also cool because it has all those novelty chess sets, like Harry Potter chess, Civil War chess, and even Doctor Who chess. And here's a picture of a cool Doctor Who chess set...

War Games: Civil War Recreations

2007-05-19T23:42:00.001-05:00

I think I must have a lot in common with Larry David, the Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm scribe who created the fake-Italian character of George Costanza to act as a grotesque mouthpiece for his own views. For example, in one episode, Costanza confesses that, as a child, he had wanted to grow up to be a marine biologist. So did I! (The movie Jaws had a big effect on me ...) In another episode, the one with Keith Hernandez, Costanza says sadly, "I always wanted to be a Civil War buff. I wonder how you become one." And Jerry replies, "First you have to get up before ten-thirty in the morning." (This isn't verbatim dialog. I have the DVD, but I'm too tired to check.)

Well, I've always been marginally interested in military history - studying historic battles, watching recreations, etc. - and the wars I am most interested in are the ones in which it is reasonably possible to say that a) my people were the good guys and b) they won. These wars were World War II, The American Revolution, and the American Civil War. However, as much as I am interested in these wars, I do not read books about them, I don't play computer games with such battles, I don't collect toy soldiers, and I haven't joined a Civil War recreation group. Even my brother, who is very interested in this stuff, and has read books, and bought soldiers, and played video games, has not dressed up in period clothing, bought an outmoded weapon, and pretended to shoot guys on fields of grass to entertain tourists or to take part in a three-hour independent film like Gods and Generals.

So, on one occasion, I was at a historically preserved part of Richmond County watching an annual Civil War battle recreated. It was an invented skirmish, small-scale on a small stage. (After all, we weren't at the Gettysburg battlefield.) The battle was fun to watch, and I took some pictures. I then went to get some apple cider and talk to some local women, dressed in nineteenth-century clothes, about how to work a butter-churn.

Once the men returned from the battlefield, seeking apple cider of their own, I decided to talk to a few about how one becomes a Civil War buff on this scale.

(Two side notes: 1) Now, Ellen Degeneres has made fun of guys like this for being super nerds, and even had a episode of her series when she joined such an outfit, but it seems pretty cool as far as hobbies go. 2) I will admit, if I took part, I'd have to be a Union solider on general principle, and I am uneasy talking to the guys who talk poetically about the fighting spirit of the south, but I don't think this guy I'm about to tell you about, Howard Rich, was pro-slavery in any way. I think he's talking as a military historian and a humanist, not as somebody who wishes the South won. I hope.)

“To me, it’s one of the greatest hobbies in the world,” said Walter Peters, who played a pioneer (the equivalent of a corporal) in a recreation of the 14th Brooklyn Regiment.

To join the 14th Brooklyn an interested party must pay $20 dues each year. The group meets once a month for drills at Richmond Town. Members travel, doing historical recreations in schools, for scouts, and at places such as Grant’s Tomb.

The men must research their roles well in order to be both believable historical soldiers and faithful to the individual whom they have chosen to portray.

“You get the men’s records from the government and learn as much as you can about his life and then portray him,” said Peters.

The group’s uniforms are specially made; some of the first were direct copies of originals.

It cost a new member about $3,000 to fully equip himself with a rifle and uniform. New members do not have to equip themselves immediately – they are given a full year to accumulate the gear needed.

One of the reasons Howard Rich, 50, a New Jersey resident, decided to become part of the Confederate Forces as a member of Lee’s Light Horse Calvary is because it is less expensive to play a rebel.

“The rebels did with what they could,” said Rich. “Many of the items used by the rebels you can make yourself. I have a freedom to make my uniform one that suits me. Federals have to be dressed exactly like one another.”

He didn’t only opt for the South for financial reasons. He also chose the Confederacy because he admires the tenacity of the Southern fighting man,

“They were the underdogs throughout the war, 10 to one,” he said.

Although many in the unit do play real historical figures – and some are even able to play their own ancestors – Rich invented his own character.

According to Rich, the battles are carefully choreographed ahead of time. His unit is a dismounted cavalry unit because the South had very few horses, particularly by the end of the war. Therefore, the men fight as infantry with cavalry tactics.

Although the battles are well organized, sometimes the outcomes wind up differently than intended – providing the battle isn’t strictly a recreation.

But, in a battle that uses no ammunition, or even paint balls, how does a soldier know when he has been “shot”?

“Sometimes a person picks you out and lets you know he’s aiming at you. It’s only fair to take the hit.” He said that too many people can’t die early on, or there wouldn’t be much of a battle – especially when the Southern forces are outnumbered to begin with.

War Games: Dungeons and Dragons

2007-05-19T23:29:00.001-05:00

I could tell from my friend’s reaction that I had just said something he found extremely unusual. “You want to play a woman?” my college roommate Sean asked.

“Yes.” I really couldn’t figure out what his problem was. After all, Dungeons and Dragons was supposedly about role-playing.

“But that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

You see, to him, as a fantasy gaming veteran, half the fun is to pretend to be a gallant, heroic fighter – a lone warrior with a sword, roaming the countryside and rescuing beautiful maidens with long golden locks from frog creatures with skull necklaces. If you play a woman, then the goal of the game – for nerds to play men much more macho than themselves – sort of collapses.

There was no real way I could explain it to him. By this point he was convinced that I had some secret desire to be a woman in real life, and nothing I could say would change that. “I just like the way D&D women are drawn on the covers of Dragonlance books. They look cool,” I tried to explain.

It didn’t work. He was so irritated by my insistence that he found the perfect way to discourage me. “Fine, but since you want to do this, I’ll make it as realistic as possible. I will have to give you strength and endurance defects that will drive down the quality of the adventuring party and, once a month, I’ll give you PMS.”

“Well, that doesn’t make sense. If you get to play a supernaturally strong man, then why can’t I play a superhuman woman? Like Wonder Woman? If she gets cramps in the middle of a fight with Darkseid, it never shows. She just kicks Darkseid’s ass.”

“This is D&D. You don’t play superheroes. You play strong humans. And a strong female is still a minus in a group of strong men.”

Feeling I wasn’t getting anywhere, I changed tactics. “I don’t want to play a muscle-bound Teutonic moron. I’m an English major. Can I be someone Byronic, at least? Maybe a reluctant vampire?”

“No. I’m playing a Paladin and Paladin’s would never associate with vampires. Even reluctant ones. At every turn I’d have to try to kill you and the adventure would go nowhere. We’d just try to kill each other until one died.”

“Can you not play a Paladin, then? Play someone morally ambiguous, like a Robin Hood kind of guy?”

“No. I want to be a Paladin.”

“And I want to be an elf woman or a male vampire.”

“But who’s the Dungeon Master?”

“You are.”

“Exactly.”

Well, at that moment, Sean exhibited one of the main problems I have always had with Dungeons and Dragons since I was a kid. Aside from the time commitment involved in forming a little role-playing community, there is also the ever-present danger of tyrannical Dungeon Masters.

Seeing as how I’ve never actually played an extended campaign, my impression of the Dungeon Master is shrouded in mystery. However, my sense of the Master’s task is to maintain order and to direct the imagination of the players along the completion of an adventure with as few problems as possible. The DM usually plays all the characters that the players do not, like walking skeletons, Beholders, barmaids, and town governors, creating much of the conflict the gamers face. In a sense, the DM is God, and he is not always a benign God.

Basically, you don’t want the DM for an enemy, because, if he decides you aren’t fun to play with any more, he can kill you whenever he wants: “Horace, you are walking along a winding forest road and bunnies are playing at your feet when … whoops! You’ve just stepped on a land mine. That’s eighty damage points and, yes, you are dead. Sorry.”

“Don’t I get to roll the dice to see if the odds of luck favor me and I dodge the blast?” asks a horrified Horace.

“Not in the Red Zone. That’s a no-dodge-roll territory,” the DM replies, pulling an excuse out of him bum.

When I was in fifth grade, every boy in my class had the basic Dungeons and Dragons set, but very few had actually read all the directions. I bought it because it had a nice red box and a cool picture of a diesel swordsman facing off against a big red dragon, but I didn’t get beyond the first practice adventure. Every day during free period I could hear the resident Dungeon Master saying the wildest things to his players:

DM: You’re banished to the sixth dimension!

Player: Banished! What do you mean, banished?

DM: You misused the reality ring and you’re now trapped in a world of eternal flame.

Player: You can’t do this to me! I’m a level 43 hobbit with six pet allosaurs and a two-handed mace.

DM: I can do whatever I want! I’m the DM!

(This is how intellectually gifted grammar school children used to talk, during the early 1980s.)

A decade later, as an undergraduate in college, I finally had the experience of playing the game the real way. A really gifted, imaginative Dungeon Master led a role-playing session of a game called Toon (a cousin to D&D) where players pretend to be cartoon characters. The afternoon was tremendous fun, and the group of us who played worked our imaginations overtime. Instead of a woman, I played a duck with a split personality who could transform himself at any time into Frank Sinatra. It wasn't the greatest character in the world, but it wasn't bad for my first attempt.

At last, I was able to see the appeal of what had previously seemed like an unappealing session of dice-rolling and clashing egos. For a few brief hours, players get to do what movie actors do all the time - step out of their own personalities into a world of fantasy and wonder. Now that I've had an experience such as this, I understand what makes role-playing so addicting. I still haven't been pulled into serious play, because I have other hobbies that I'm committed to that demand most of my time. However, I am willing to try it in the future. (Especially the Doctor Who role-playing game.) And when I do play again, I will do whatever I can not to get on the Dungeon Master's bad side.

What do College Professors Do, Anyway?

2007-04-28T16:12:00.001-05:00

So I have to write a self-evaluation every January to track my progress as a college professor and academic. This is what I wrote after my first semester as a full-time, tenure-track college prof:

Introduction
I joined this college as an Assistant Professor of Communications this fall with a PhD in English, a background in journalism, and five years of experience teaching undergraduate literature and writing courses in New York and New Jersey. Since I was one of eight new faculty hires, I was able to make fast friends with several of my fellow neophytes, and the faculty, staff, and administrators were all welcoming and eager to “show me the ropes.” While I still have much to learn about campus culture and my responsibilities as a faculty member, I felt that my first semester went surprisingly smoothly. Aside from teaching a four-course load that included computer science, journalism, and mass media classes, my main responsibility was to assume the position of faculty advisor to the student newspaper. My student staff and I produced four issues on a monthly basis, which generated some constructive criticism and several positive reviews. I also attended a number of faculty workshops throughout the semester that helped me refine my teaching methods and improve my knowledge of computer science. In addition, I was fortunate enough to see my first book published by Pearson/Longman during this past term – a literary anthology and freshman composition textbook called The Conscious Reader (I became a full-fledged editor with this 10th edition). Next semester I hope to teach my students more challenging material and organize on- and off-campus events to improve my service to the college and to the community.

Teaching Effectiveness
While one of my courses this past semester, New Media, was comprised primarily of upperclassmen, the rest were essentially dominated by freshmen. As one might expect, the seasoned students, several of whom were majors, were remarkably easy to teach. They had a desire to learn and a solid work ethic. In fact, in certain cases I was pleased to have the opportunity to mentor students who wished to find rewarding internships and to go on to earn graduate degrees in their fields. When I have a strong rapport with students – as I did throughout the semester with the New Media class and frequently with my Writing for the Media section – I am able to lead the kind of low-key, discussion-centered lesson that my department chair correctly described as “Columbo”-like in her evaluation. When students are more reserved and less apt to respond to that teaching style, I am often compelled to revert to more of a lecture-style lesson, which is not a teaching style I prefer.

The freshmen, especially those in Composition and Research, proved rather difficult to engage. It was a challenge keeping them interested in the lectures, enforcing classroom discipline, and assigning writing assignments to them when they had no real experience composing long essays and journalistic pieces. In an attempt to help these new students acclimate to life at the college, I proceeded at a deliberate pace through the curriculum, and provided extensive, walk-through directions for each of the assignments. Although a few of the students appreciated the “hand-holding” that I was doing, I found myself regretting the slow pace that I had set for my classes by mid-semester. In fact, several of the more advanced students complained that the material was not challenging enough and classes were not tightly structured. The six students that I had for upwards of three classes seemed particularly frustrated.

Attempting to improve my ability to teach and mentor members of the “Millennial Generation,” I went to several conferences and workshops throughout the semester designed to help teachers improve student literacy, writing ability, and research skills. I attended Dr. Carole Wells’ presentation on “The Faculty’s Role in Student Research,” Toby Fulwiler’s “Writing to Learn/Learning to Write” local presentation, an end-of-term meeting of Composition and Research teachers led by the department chair, and The Alvernia Faculty Academy at Stirling in which discussion of student (il)literacy took center stage. Dr. Wells’ lecture helped me craft lessons that would improve students’ understanding of research methodologies and the importance of developing solid working thesis statements. The end-of-term department meeting suggested new strategies for encouraging students to use reliable sources and avoid plagiarism. I was particularly struck, though, by the ingenuity of Fulwiler’s presentation, which encouraged me to revamp my Composition and Research section in mid-semester, transforming it from a primarily discussion-oriented class to a workshop in which in-class writing was emphasized during each lesson. As I had hoped, several of the students responded to the workshop format, and their writing improved noticeably in quality. However, a few students were unused to doing so much writing with pen and paper and suggested that they would be more comfortable and more productive working with a keyboard. Since I intend to craft my next two sections of Composition and Research to be just as writing intensive, I have asked the registrar to grant me the use of a computer-filled classroom next semester in order to better accommodate the needs of such students.

While Fulwiler’s method is particularly effective in making students more comfortable writing and in fostering stronger work habits, his textbook-free approach is limiting because it allows students to write primarily from their own personal experience and draw upon their love of popular culture. During the Alvernia Faculty Academy at Stirling, professors from both Divisions expressed the importance of improving students’ reading and critical thinking skills by assigning them more challenging readings and more historically significant texts. So my goal for the coming term is to keep my composition students writing a lot in class while doing extensive, difficult reading at home. The sacrifice of lecture time may well doom the project from the outset, but I am eager to see how many students are able to rise to the occasion when I raise my expectation level instead of watering down my curriculum to make it more “accessible.”

In addition to attending conferences on student literacy, I strove to improve my use of computer technology as a pedagogical tool. I attended The Conference for Adobe Photoshop Users (a CompuMaster Seminar) as well as a series of workshops on Dreamweaver, Web CT, and Excel hosted by out IT staff. These courses will help me further integrate technology into my lessons and develop strategies to improve students’ ability to gather reliable information from internet sources.

Addendum: I’ve just read my 2005 Student Feedback Forms and I think that they offer a fair evaluation of my classes this semester. Since it was my first semester at this college, and my first time teaching these courses, the term was as much a learning process for me as it was for them. Several students criticized an inefficient use of class time, cited unclear assignment parameters, and were put off by deviations from the syllabus. I am also unsurprised that my more conscientious students were irritated with me for being too lenient with disciplining and penalizing underachievers. All told, I was already aware of several of these problems, and anticipated these criticisms. I’ve already taken steps to offer more challenging material, more tightly structured lessons, and to enforce higher academic standards. However, I am particularly pleased with two recurring themes in my feedback forms. I was a little worried that my teaching style was a bit too “autobiographical,” and that I used too many personal anecdotes about my experiences as a reporter to teach journalism. However, my students seemed very positive on that score, and said that my stories were entertaining and informative, so I will not shelve my personal narratives after all. I was also very happy to see that my efforts to give lots of one-on-one attention to my composition students met with strong approval. Since this is my plan for the coming semester, it suggests that I am on the right track. (So, thankfully, it seems that my composition class may have been more successful than I realized.)

Overall, I feel that I have learned a lot from my first semester teaching at Alvernia, and I am eager to do a much better job during my second semester.

Advising and Service to Students
As a faculty advisor to the student newspaper, I participated in every step of putting together each of the four issues of the paper published this past semester (Vol. 15, Issue 1; Vol. 15, Issue 2; Vol. 15, Issue 3, and Vol. 15, Issue 4). I began the production cycle of each issue by meeting with student editors to determine what stories “needed” to be covered. Then I approached my Journalism Workshop students and our freelance photographer with assignments, and allowed many reporters to select their own stories. I also worked with the president to create a monthly column. To make the paper even more “literate” and more “Catholic,” I created two new regular features, the Monthly Mission Moment and Poetry Corner, and my staff and I chose selections for these features while waiting for articles to be submitted. Once the stories came in, the student editors and I proofread them to improve content, grammar, and spelling. Then we decided on the two lead stories and the general layout of the paper. After the issue was laid out using the program InDesign, it was transformed into an Adobe Acrobat file, burned into a CD, and sent to our printer. The issue would arrive a week later, and I distributed it throughout the campus, sometimes single-handedly, sometimes with the help of students or staff members.

I had a few problems getting used to organizing the paper. Sometimes students would hand in articles late, or not at all; other times editors fell ill or had major exams and were effectively unable to contribute much during the week we were in full production. However, I felt that I had a strong team of editors overall and my student reporters frequently surprised me with the high quality of the work they submitted. Our biggest obstacle throughout the semester has been in obtaining keys to the office from public safety for the editors and myself. After a few months of waiting, my editors are now all equipped with keys and I have been told that my key should be arriving shortly. Another disappointment has been that the press’ color printer has malfunctioned, so the issues this semester were all entirely in black-and-white, save for some red “spot coloring” on the cover logo.

My last major contribution as an advisor to students was to organize the creation of an Internship database for communications careers. I asked each of my students in Writing for the Media to go on an “Internship Treasure Hunt,” and send me information on whatever they found. I then compiled the information, placed an electronic version on the T: drive, and printed out a booklet of internships for those who were too “Luddite” by nature to use the T: drive.

Scholarly Research and Creative Work
The tenth edition of The Conscious Reader (an anthology of literature, poetry, drama, and non-fiction prose designed for first-year writing students) was published in November of 2005. This was the first time I was presented as a full-fledged editor of TCR and my name appeared on the cover. In the two previous editions I was either thanked in the Acknowledgements or listed as an “editorial assistant” on the inside cover. For this edition, I was responsible for choosing many of the new selections, wrote the biographical head notes for the authors, and contributed classroom discussion questions to accompany the new texts. I also wrote the index, rearranged the order of the “returning” selections, improved the glossary, chose several pieces of artwork, and created a new section called “Globalism, Nationalism, and Cultural Identity” to give the book a more current feel. I was also responsible for revamping the Popular Culture section, and provided new texts on blogs, reality television, fast food, Harry Potter, and politically slanted talk radio programs. I also suggested including a short story by Sherman Alexie, rap lyrics, and a shooting script for the British television show The Office, but these ideas were not approved, so such selections do not appear in the book.

Once my work on The Conscious Reader was complete, I began a quest to get my dissertation published. McFarland and Company turned down the manuscript for being too academic, so I went to the December MLA Convention in Washington, D.C. to make contact with other publishers. The SUNY Press based in Albany, Oxford University Press, and Blackwell all expressed interest in seeing a précis. However, I was surprised to discover that the service that published bound copies of my dissertation for me, ProQuest, began selling downloadable Adobe Acrobat versions of my dissertation on Amazon.com sometime in December. A ProQuest representative reassured me that I retain the rights to my work, and revealed that the company intends to begin selling bound copies through Amazon within the next few months. While I am glad for the exposure (and the promise of royalties), I am worried that the availability of bound versions of my dissertation from ProQuest will harm my ability to get my work published by a more scholarly academic publisher. It is an odd problem, but I will continue to seek publication for The Many Faces of Emma Woodhouse: The Film and Television Adaptations of Jane Austen’s Emma as Readings of the Novel.

While at MLA, I also attempted to sell my idea for an anthology of comic book and essay selections called Comic Books, Super Heroes, and Culture, geared towards freshman writing classes. The guiding principle of the book is that young people are primarily visually oriented and are more interested in discussing popular culture issues than contemporary politics and literature, so they would respond to a book about super heroes dealing with issues of race, gender, war, and technology. The proposed book combines primary sources (comic books from Marvel and DC by Alan Moore, Stan Lee, Will Eisner, etc.) with academic deconstructions of comic books by Umberto Eco, Gloria Steinem, Jonathan Lethem, Harlan Ellison, and others. Pearson and Bedford/St. Martin’s have both turned down the book, but I await responses from
McGraw-Hill and Blackwell.

Finally, I presented a paper, “Spider-Man, Authorship, and Adaptation,” at the Comic Arts Conference in the San Diego Convention Center (Room 7B, 10:30 – noon) on Friday, July 15, 2005. The paper was an examination of how the intimacy of various connections between character and storyteller have resulted in Spider-Man’s gradually, over forty years, becoming one of the richest and most complex science-fiction characters in comic books.

Service to College, Profession, and Community
In its “criteria for promotion in rank or the granting of tenure” the Department of English and Communication combines the requirements of “Service to the College,” “Service to the Profession,” and “Service to the Community” into one overarching category. The following represents my work in each of the three areas for the Fall 2005 semester:

During the past two months, I have laid the groundwork for bringing guest speakers to the college next semester, and have begun to organize a free film festival at the Goggle Works. I am also hoping to speak with the music department about the possibility of bringing a classical music ensemble to the school for an evening or weekend concert. All of these events are on track to take place next semester.

I worked with a fellow communication professor to organize a class trip to the local newspaper and brought my students to see guest speakers from the world of journalism.

As I understand it, book reviews count as Service to the Profession, and I have contributed several book reviews this semester to CHOICE magazine, which is a periodical designed to help librarians determine which books they should purchase for their libraries. Of the five reviews I wrote, at least two have been published already and the other reviews will be published sometime next semester. My review of “Knox-Shaw, Peter. Jane Austen and the Enlightenment. Cambridge, 2004” appeared in the July 2005 issue of CHOICE. My review of “Dante and the Unorthodox: The Aesthetics of Transgression. Wilfred Laurier, 2005” appeared in the December 2005 issue. My as-yet-unpublished reviews were for books called Intimacy in America, Imagining the Internet, and Internet Playground.

Marc as College Professor: Year Two

2007-04-28T16:07:00.001-05:00

Self-Evaluation:
Marc DiPaolo
Assistant Professor of Communications
January 2007

I. Introduction
During my second year at this college, my teaching and faculty governance responsibilities increased as I took on additional courses and became the chair of the Faculty Development and Research Committee. I helped form a community outreach program geared towards providing extracurricular activities and learning opportunities to the young people of the south side of the city. I also contributed to the local Literary Festival.

II. Teaching Effectiveness

Courses Taught Spring 2006:
Com 101 – Composition and Research (two sections)
Com 122 – Mass Media
Com 132 – Journalism Workshop
Com 332 – Multimedia Design and Editing
Com 432 – Newspaper Production
Eng 321 – Ethics and Tragedy
Courses Taught Fall 2006:
Coll 110 – First Year Seminar
Com 131 – Writing for the Media
Com 132 – Journalism Workshop
Com 332 – Multimedia Design and Editing
Com 362 – New Media
Com 432 – Newspaper Production
Coll 390 – Foreign Films
Winterim 2007:
Com 290: Special Topics: Comic Books and Super Heroes

I’ve really enjoyed teaching most of my courses this past year. In particular, the honors course on Foreign Films was a joy to teach. Although my comprehensive exams and my dissertation dealt with film, this was only the second time I had the opportunity to teach a film course. My first outing, Italian Films at Wagner College, was successful to the extent that I feel that I taught the class well and led excellent discussions, but I felt frustrated that the students, as a whole, loathed the material. This time out, the classroom discussions were quite good and the students were highly responsive to even the most challenging films. For example, they actually liked The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, which is one of the oddest films ever made, and had interesting comments to make about it. I was genuinely sad when the course ended and several students expressed the same sentiments to me.

Having taught the journalism classes once last year, my sections of Writing for the Media and Newspaper Production were far better this time out. I’m not a veteran yet, but I felt that my lectures had improved, the syllabi had evolved in a positive direction, and my confidence has grown. While I felt that I had made my classes a little too easy last year, I may well have made them too difficult this time out, as several of the students chafed at the amount of reading I assigned. For example, I put six books on the reading list of Writing for the Media this time, in comparison to last year’s one textbook. Consequently, I anticipate some resistance to the workload on my student Feedback Forms and on ratemyprofessor.com. Still, I feel that the class is improving and that the third time out teaching Writing for the Media will be the charm.

Meanwhile, the Ethics and Tragedy course that I helmed was easy for me to teach because we did a lot of in-class “close reading of text” exercises that ensured the students understood the esoteric language of the plays and the more obscure historical references. I am particularly good at teaching by doing in-class text-crawls, but I am not sure how often such an approach is justified in a Communication course.

While the Fall 2006 semester was largely successful, I should acknowledge that the Spring semester of 2006 saw my least successful course at this college thus far. Inspired by Toby Fulwiler’s pedagogical philosophy (discussed in my last self-evaluation), I designed my Composition and Research classes as primarily in-class writing workshops and provided computers for students who did not like to write in longhand. The students were supposed to read the selections from The Conscious Reader at home and come to class ready to write their reactions in three thoughtful paragraphs on the classroom computers. The theory was that the best way to learn to write was to read a lot (at home) and to write a lot (in class). It didn’t work. Unfortunately, the most of the students refused to buy the book (claiming financial difficulties) and used the computers to surf the web rather than write the papers. Discipline was a major problem – a lot of talking in class and iPod listening and Facebook/MySpace tinkering. After several weeks passed and the situation did not improve, I issued a new syllabus and taught the class in a more traditional mode. The new direction worked and the class was salvaged. I am not sure whether Fulwiler’s methods are fundamentally flawed or if I tried them with the wrong group of students. Either way, I don’t imagine I will attempt to use them again any time soon.

With that particular class past me, I do feel that the teaching of writing remains a real challenge. It is especially difficult when the students do not appear to have had a tradition of writing instruction in their K-12 years, and in a culture that encourages them to look up “the right answer” on Wikipedia, thereby avoiding thinking about a given issue or crafting a response to an essay question from whole cloth. Plagiarism in general has become a large problem, to the point where it is actually a frightening prospect assigning an essay or a paper to students. I have tried asking students to redo their papers on the first plagiarism offense of the semester (they often seem genuinely ignorant of what plagiarism is, just as they do not understand that downloading music/movies constitutes theft and copyright infringement) and then failing outright anyone who repeats the offense. These measures appear to be too lenient, so I am considering using the Turn It In internet services.

Perhaps the best solution to a given problem is to grade students with a rubric that demands a certain number of quoted passages and a given amount of commentary on the quotes. I have used this measure to teach journalism and have, as a result, secured much better researched articles for the school paper. While articles handed in last year tended to be editorials thinly disguised as articles without any quotes from staff, faculty, or administrators whatsoever, students are now compelled to conduct interviews before writing their articles, largely because of this rubric I have created.

So, I’m still working all this out. I’ll get back to you next year with how it all goes…

III. Advising and Service to Students

I think it is safe to say that the fruits of my labor as a professor, and student organization advisor, are at their most visible whenever the school newspaper is posted online or delivered in hard copy throughout the campus. This year’s staff is the first one that I picked. I was not able to choose highly seasoned reporters because I taught exclusively freshmen and seniors last year, so I have a staff of mainly sophomores. I had chosen them on the basis of their writing skills and their knowledge of campus events. Since they are good students, they are overextended – they are almost all work-study types on CAB, SGA, and members of Sigma Tau Delta or the Philosophy Club. Consequently, the articles have been better written, but it has taken longer for the paper to come out since they have to squeeze their work on it in between various work shifts. My goal for next semester will be to maintain quality while speeding up the publishing cycle.

During my tenure, the paper has taken a strong stand against racism on campus and rampant vandalism. Vandalism in particular seems omnipresent. The dormitories are regularly vandalized, the letters of the school logo were recently stolen from the Upland Center, and over a dozen cars parked on campus had genitals and homophobic slurs scrawled over them shortly before Thanksgiving. My staff and I have worked to cover these events. We have also featured a new column, Alvernia: A Black Perspective, by an adult student (she’s 30), and the SGA president has supervised the creation of a broader Multicultural section. Certain articles and columns have inspired debate and controversy on campus – especially the first Black Perspective column – but the general perception is that the paper has adopted a certain edge, and a willingness to cover “bad news” that it has not had previously. The reaction from the faculty has been strongly positive on this score. I am pleased to hear it, even though I am not out to be edgy for the sake of being edgy. Since I have sensed increased interest from the students, who say they are more likely to read the paper these days, and support from the faculty, I would like to maintain this general sense of “readership” good will by holding the students to higher standards of journalistic integrity and accuracy. In a recent letter to the editor, an alumnus scolded The Alvernian for sensationalism and said, “Yes, report the news – but report it responsibly.” That has been my goal and it will continue to be my goal.

IV. Scholarly Research and Creative Work

A) Scholarship and Teaching
Interestingly, while some might worry that scholarship and service to the profession distract faculty from their students at a teaching-centered college, I have found this year that my scholarly work has helped improve my lessons and my grasp of the field. In fact, the work I have done as a book reviewer for CHOICE Magazine has helped my New Media course in particular. I have been kept up-to-date with all of the most recent Cyber Culture scholarship, and have reviewed books by luminaries in the field such as Ellen Seiter. I have been able to incorporate much of what I have learned into my lectures. Even my failed attempt at getting a “Super Hero” anthology book published last year has led to my writing an academic book on comic books as commentaries on “the war on terror” AND I have used my research for this book as the basis for a Winterim course on super heroes and comic books. So intellectual work, no matter how seemingly elitist, does indeed find its way back to the students after all!

B) Conferences
I gave a presentation on “Batman as Terrorist, Technocrat, and Feudal Lord in the Comic Books and Film Adaptations” at March’s North Eastern MLA conference in Philadelphia. With luck, the speech will be published by McFarland and Company in a book called Heroes and Home Fronts, edited by Lisa DeTora. I also attended a conference on grant-writing sponsored by the National Endowment for the Humanities held at Muhlenberg College and discovered that I was eligible to apply for exactly 0 grants. Oh, well…

C) Editing The Conscious Reader
A brief edition of The Conscious Reader is slated for publication January 5, 2007. I was working on it throughout the Fall 2006 semester.

D) Other Publishing Endeavors
My goal for this semester was simple. Publish. Publish. Publish. So I submitted an array of proposals in response to a variety of Calls for Papers (or CFPs) out of the Penn State Listserv. The proposals were all for chapters in themed anthologies edited by professors at other colleges and universities. A number of my proposals were accepted, putting me in the position of having to write my essays in a great hurry during the course of the semester. Fortunately, I completed all of the essays in question and submitted them all on time. As a result, there is a good chance that my name will appear in the table of contents of no less than four books next semester in addition to on the cover of The Conscious Reader:

“‘ITALIANS’ KNOW NOTHING OF LOVE: THE MARX BROTHERS AS GUARDIAN ANGELS OF YOUNG LOVERS IN JEOPARDY.” 100 Years of the Marx Brothers. Edited by Joe Mills. Cambridge Scholars Press.

“VAMPIRES” and “SERGIO LEONE” entries in The Encyclopedia of Religion and Film. Edited by Eric Mazur. London: Greenwood Press.

“BATMAN AS TERRORIST, TECHNOCRAT, AND FEUDAL LORD IN THE COMIC BOOKS AND FILM ADAPTATIONS.” Heroes and Home Fronts. Edited by Lisa DeTora. McFarland and Company.

“WONDER WOMAN AS WORLD WAR II VETERAN, CAMP FEMINIST ICON, AND SEX SYMBOL.” The Amazing Transforming Superhero. Edited by Terrence Wandtke. McFarland and Company.

I am also working on getting my dissertation published as a book. Peter Lang has expressed an interest and has sent the manuscript off to a reviewer. Fingers crossed.

E) Areas of Academic Interest

As a generalist with interdisciplinary interests and a foot in both the English and Communications fields, my scholarly interests are highly diverse and often evoke a certain amount of surprise. (For example, my dissertation is about Jane Austen and I am now writing about Batman. Many people find this juxtaposition odd, if not outright funny.) Because my writing interests are diverse, I predict that there will be a certain amount of pressure placed upon me to find an easily graspable “summation” – or “high-concept phrase” – to attach to my body of work, demonstrating continuity from one essay/book to another. I dislike defining myself, and I do not want such pressure to stifle my generalist leanings or force me to prematurely pigeonhole myself. However, I understand that it is critical that I find a certain theme that unites my work. Although I may change my scholarly leanings in the future, I have determined that the following two themes have recurred in my work thus far:

1) I have an interest in the process of enculturation, both from the perspective of new immigrants and those who are descendants of immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island. This interest informs my scholarship on the portrayal of Roman Catholics (particularly Italian and Hispanic) in film, and my writings on super hero comic books, which were created by Jewish immigrants. In the future, I will likely write about Italian role models (how I prefer Columbo and Rocky to the gangsters in The Sopranos) in film and on television. I have already written about the view that director Sergio Leone presents of Catholicism and the Mexican-American experience in his films, and I hope to see that article published in The Encyclopedia of Religion in Film.

2) Adaptation theory, which concerns storytelling technique and how changes in content and narrative form influence both the central themes of a given story and potential reader response. My dissertation covers novel-to-film adaptation, and focuses on Jane Austen. My Batman paper covers comics-to-film adaptation. In the future, I hope to write about fairy tale adaptations, plays-to-operas (such as Verdi’s Il Trovatore as an adaptation), and the King Arthur legend as an inspiration for the television series Babylon 5. While these specific essays may never be written or published, my interest in adaptation will likely remain constant.

V. Service to the College

A) Faculty Development & Research: I was elected as a member-at-large to the D&R Committee at the end of the Spring 2006 semester. Two-thirds of the way into the Fall semester, the chair of the committee was compelled to resign for family reasons. Since I was the only remaining member who could be the chair (two other members were chairs of other committees and the third member had exceeded his term limits as chair of D&R), I became the chair. I’m still learning the ropes. I’ll have more to say on this score next January. Also, I am now on the Executive Committee.

B) The Literary Festival: I offered a lecture called “The Politics of Horror Films.” At once academic and fun, it played to a full house, including community members who read a preview piece on the talk in the local newspaper.

C) Organized a classical music concert in conjunction with the music department. The concert featured clarinetist Stacey Miller, an Eastman alumnus, a doctoral candidate at Stony Brook, and my fiancé.

D) 2008 Association of Franciscan Colleges and Universities Conference: I have volunteered to help organize it.

F) Donated several books to the school library. Most were useful, scholarly, and
welcome. However, my collection of James Bond books was returned to me.

G) The Writers’ Series. I am writing my autobiography (in installments) and reading it (in installments) during Dr. Bierowski’s monthly forum at the library on Friday afternoons at 1. This material has all, eventually, found its way into my blog, The Adventures of Italian-American Man. If not for the Writers’ Series, there would be no blog.

VI. Service to the Profession

A) Reviewer for CHOICE magazine.

B) Manuscript reviewer for SOKOLIK AND KRASNY. SOUND IDEAS. McGraw-Hill Higher Education. Proposed 1st edition of Freshman Writing anthology.

Italy Trip: Studying Abroad and ... Getting Lost?

2007-04-22T14:32:00.000-05:00

One of the first things I remember about the flight to Italy was the fact that the stewardess was beautiful. She was tall, olive-skinned, and had a beauty that was both sultry and aristocratic at once. You could also tell that she was a warm person by the way she spoke to the passengers, switching back and forth between English and Italian, depending on who she addressed.

She also looked a bit like Monica Bellucci.

My college roommate Sean and I were lucky enough to have her check on us several times. I wasn’t yet 21, but I asked her for a Bailey’s Irish Cream. Without double-checking my age or even giving me a questioning look, she got the drink and handed it to me with a smile.

Now, I’ve had, for as long as I can remember, a desire to photograph anything beautiful – women, art, scenery, and milestone events in my life. During my last year of High School, Griffin started referring to me as a “little old lady” because of my penchant for shoving a camera in his face. But I wanted to remember him, and what he looked like, as I got older. The same held true for this stewardess. I had brought at least 12 rolls of film with me, ready to document every aspect of this trip. I wanted the first photo I took to be of this woman.

It was the sort of thing my father would do a lot when we were on vacation. He’d ask an extraordinarily beautiful tour guide in Colonial Williamsburg, Va., to pose with his children just so he could have a picture of an extraordinarily beautiful tour guide in a flowing, 19th century dress. More often than not, these pictures would come out overexposed – an act of God that probably annoyed me almost as much as my father.

But I didn’t have little kids with me to pretend the shot was for them. I sat in my chair, holding my camera, waiting for the stewardess to walk by. There were several problems. For one thing, the “Buckle your seat belts” sign was lit. Also, the stewardess had been doing less and less walking by of late. I was sitting right in front of my two teachers and tour guides – Doctor Eric Olansky and Joachim Sanchez – and I was intimidated by her beauty. After all, there was no way of knowing how anyone would react, especially the stewardess herself.

“What’s up,” Sean asked, wondering why I’d gotten so quiet.

“I want to take a picture of the stewardess.”

Sean smiled at my eccentric desire. “Are you going to sneak one as she walks by?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to take a picture if she doesn’t want me to. I’ll ask her.”

“That’ll be great,” Sean laughed. “If you have the balls to do that.”

“Will you take the picture?”

“Sure, if you take one with me and her.”

“I’ll try.”

“But you’ve told me you were going to do it, so don’t you dare back out now or I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

“I’m nervous,” I admitted. “But I’m gonna do it.”

Of course, another agonizing hour passed without any sign of an opportunity. I was not the sort of person who mad such blatant passes at people, and, in order for me to do anything exciting or out-of-character, I have to do it on impulse. Once I start thinking about it, it becomes something I have to do. Anxiety gradually builds within me until I start to sweat at the forehead and a desperate look comes to my eyes.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen this time. I had been too timid in my life so far and I needed to be more aggressive. This would be one little test. She was a stranger and if she recoiled at the suggestion, I wouldn’t have lost much. The stakes were low, but I was still scared, so I knew I had to do it, or I would never have the courage to walk up to a woman at a bar.

“Excuse me?” I said as she walked by.

She stopped. “Yes?”

“This is my first trip to Italy and I want to remember the flight over. Would you mind taking a picture with me?”

She eyes the camera, confused. “What do you want a picture of?”

“Us,” I said, gesturing back and forth between her and myself.

“Oh.” She straightened, her expression still puzzled, but in no way judgmental. "Come on, and we can go in the back to get the others.”

Sean stood from his aisle seat and let me out into the open. Then we both followed the stewardess to the flight attendants’ station at the back of the plane. There were two other stewardesses sitting down drinking coffee when we got there.

“He wants to take a picture with us,” she said.

The male attendant bowed out of the picture, but not before offering to take it himself. I was glad because this allowed Sean to be in the shot as well. It could have easily been an awkward moment, but the woman was so classy and understanding about it that the whole thing went very smoothly.

Sean and I thanked the attendants and then returned to our seats. I was relieved that it was over and cheered that the first minor event of the trip was a happy one.

As we came into a landing, a view of some of the greenest, most majestic land I’d ever seen greeted my eyes through the plane’s window. On drives to State University of New York at Honeychurch Falls, I had noticed some very nice land just off the highway, with the occasional farm and herd of cows dotting the landscape. But those views were seen on ground level, from the highway, while now I was seeing the greenery of Italy from the sky, with no highway in sight and no farms. It almost seemed untouched by civilization, and it was beautiful. I took a photo of it through the window, which I assumed would not develop well.

The plan came in for a landing, and shortly thereafter I was able to pick up all my bags and head out into the airport with Sean and the twenty-two other people in my group. I was surprised when my passport was not immediately checked and we seemed to make it out of the airport in record time.

After we emerged from the airport in a city area, I got my first shock. I had no ideas where the rolling hills went, but they couldn’t have been too far away because I had seen them only five minutes before the plan touched down. Still, they were nowhere to be seen, and the street was no more attractive than a busy section of Baltimore. Even the airport exterior was odd, because it had a space-age modernism to its architecture.

“I’m not liking this,” said Sean, and I agreed.

Olansky knew exactly where he was going, so he led our tour group across the street, into a building, down some stairs, through a few large chambers filled with fellow travelers, and viola, we were on a train. He had worked things out with such speed, efficiency, and precision that all we had to do was keep the back of his head in our line of vision and chase after it. But he was fast and had very little luggage, so it was tough keeping up.

My luggage had wheels, so while I had a lot of stuff, keeping up was fairly easy. It was only when we hit the odd staircase that I had trouble because I had to carry one suitcase and two carry-on bags up and down the stairs. This didn’t bother me much because it meant I dropped back to where the pretty blonde in our group was. She had the second most luggage of all of us, and Sean and I would take turns helping her get her stuff around. Sean had noticed her before I did, which was no surprise because he always kept his eye open for someone to pursue. This was one of the rare instances where we both singled out the same girl. The last time that had happened was not pleasant, and I didn’t want any trouble during my first trip to Italy.

It was very surreal speeding through a foreign country. I’d get to a place and not even be sure how I’d gotten there. To this day, I can’t remember what route we took to get to the train tracks. All I know is we got there in record time.

We took one train for about twenty minutes before getting a transfer. On the ride, Sean sat next to the blonde, whose name was Eileen, and talked to her about music. He asked her if she liked Billy Joel and she said as far as she was concerned, the Beatles was the only band truly worth listening to. Sean’s eyes grimaced when his face didn’t. I wondered if that meant he’d lost interest in her. I wondered if I had a chance with her. Then I shook my head. That was absurd. She was way too pretty for the likes of me.

At the next station, we found out we barely missed the train because of delays we’d hit during our flight. Since it would be about a half hour before anything happened, we left our luggage in one large, dusty room, and then went off to find food.

It would be my first time buying something in another language. I tried to prepare what to say as I scouted out what was essentially a glass counter filled with Olanskyies, pastries, and cold cuts.

My American comrades’ Italian had been limited to the equivalent of “one” and “thank you.” They would each point a clumsy finger through the glass at what they wanted, say “uno,” and then pay for it. Seeing that this worked, and not wanting to do anything to show up my friends, I fell back on “uno.” Once I finished the transaction, I found myself disappointed that my first conversation with a local in Italy had been rendered in cave-man Tuscano. Still, I was tired and in no mood to worry about pronunciation and idiomatic expressions.

The food wasn’t filling because I didn’t buy much, but it was good for the present. The dirty walls of the bathroom had Italian graffiti written on them. I knew enough of the language to recognize “for a good time call Francesca” and “Death to fags,” “AIDS is God’s judgment,” and “Dante was right.”

It was comforting and disappointing to see that Italy was a lot like America after all. I wondered then if graffiti was the same all over the world. Was it all racist, sexist, and phrased the same way?

Several stopovers later, we reached the outskirts of Siena. There was no way we could continue on as a group because there were too many of us and the cabs and buses were too small to hold us all at once. Sean wanted to wait for a cab, but I raced with Joachim to find myself a bus. I wasn’t in the mood to wait any longer and I wasn’t comfortable enough using Italian money to figure out things like tips, which I’m not very good at giving in America.

As I ran across the street to reach the bus, I found myself remembering Olansky’s warning to pack light. Even with the wheels, the bags were becoming a drag. Still, I had been warned time and again to pack light. I ignored the warnings deliberately, expecting to suffer at least a little bit, and I knew it would all be over soon.

The bus was crowded before the eight of us piled in, and our collective baggage made it worse. We slid our tickets into the machine, which stamped them. The bus then sped away from the street corner, traveling with such speed that I felt myself swaying drunkenly back and forth, even grasping hard onto the support poles.

The bus must have, at some point, passed through the medieval walls of Siena, but I was too busy trying to stay on my feet to notice. When the bus slid to a stop, Joachim told us all to jump off. He took quick stock to make sure we were all there and then gestured to the main street of Siena.

“We better move quickly,” he said. “It’s passegiata.”

With that, he charged down the cobblestone streets into what looked like the fastest flowing river of people I had ever seen. My group rushed against the grain, barely dodging locals and fellow tourists whose only concern was remaining on their own courses. Everyone in my group was able to negotiate the crowd more skillfully than I was because I had the most luggage of all of them. Eileen had wisely chosen a cab whereas I had not. How was I to know that passegiata, whatever that was, was going to be going on when we arrived? How was I to know that the uneven street floor would play havoc with the wheels on my luggage, constantly tipping the suitcases over on their sides if I moved too quickly?

The people of Siena kept sailing past me, waiting for me to get out of their way, laden as I was. And none of them minded jostling my bags and causing them to tip over.

On the fifth time my bag fell, I bent over to right it and sensed before I straightened up that I had lost my group.

I was right. Before me, roads diverted out into two directions, and I couldn’t tell which way my group went because they had been concealed from me by the crowds.

As tired and sweaty as I was, I decided not to panic. I really wanted to get to the hotel and go to bed, and I remembered it was called the “Lontano Garibaldi,” so all I had to do was ask somebody where the place was.

I stopped one man. “Mi scusi, sono Americano. Dove Lontano Garibaldi?”

He did not know what I was talking about. A person walking by heard the question and gestured towards what looked like the way I had come. Still, I was so disoriented by the waves of people that I figured I might have gotten myself turned around. Maybe it wasn’t the way I had come from.

I trusted his advice enough to walk several blocks in that direction until I spotted a very familiar statue. The thought crossed my mind that it would be wise to wait at the statue for rescue. I heard somewhere that that is what boy scouts are taught. Stay in one place until rescue comes. But I wasn’t a boy scout and I was tired of being rescued. I wanted to find my own way.

I asked a teenage girl where the Lontano Garibaldi was. She didn’t know.

Two other people I stopped were German tourists. They didn’t know.

One man was visiting from Rome and didn’t know Siena well.

Yet another directed me even further along my present course, which I was sure was the wrong way. But with the third person pointing in the direction I was facing, I decided to trust to the advice of the three natives.

Still, I wanted to be sure I was understood. I double-checked.

“Lontano Garibaldi e il Piccolo Hotel.”

The man’s eyes lit up and he again pointed ahead, the direction that he also happened to be traveling in. Before he could get too far ahead of me, I raced to catch up with him and said, “Cammina con me, per favore?”

He nodded and walked me to the correct street. He pointed down the street, nodded, and then continued on his way. As I walked towards the hotel, I noticed that it was called the Hotel Villa Piccola and it was on Garibaldi Street.

That was when I started to panic. I went into the reception area of the hotel and tried to communicate with the woman at the front desk. She was a slightly round woman in her 50s with graying hair.

I decided this was not the time to be grammatically correct or bashful about my attempts to speak the language. Even if I mangled my sentences and peppered them with English words and phrases, I would make myself understood.

“Buona sera. Sono studente. Ho andare a Italia con il professore. Desidero camminare a Lontano Garibaldi. Il professore in l’hotel e io am here. Dove Lontano Garibaldi hotel?”

The woman didn’t quite understand yet.

“Posso telefono l’hotel Lontano Garibaldi? Il mio professore posso aiutarmi?”

The woman reached under the desk and withdrew a phone book. She leafed through it and found the hotel pages. The pointed to an ad for the Locanda Garibaldi and asked me if that was the hotel I meant.

I nodded, not realizing until she started dialing its number that I had gotten the hotel’s name wrong. There was no Lontano Garibaldi. There was only the Locanda Garibaldi. “Lontano” meant “far away.”

She got the hotel owner on the phone and explained to him what had happened. He then went off to tell someone the news. A few moments later, she handed me the phone, and Joachim was waiting to hear from me on the other end.

“Ciao, Marco. Where are you?”

I told him what happened and explained to him that I was too lost to find a way back on my own.

“I don’t know where the hotel is,” said Joachim. “Are you with someone who can tell me how to get there?”

“Sure.”

I gave the phone to the woman and she then offered Joachim the directions. After she hung up, she invited me to wait in the lobby. She had been so helpful that I felt bad that it wasn’t her hotel I was staying at.

Of course, it seemed like it took Joachim forever to arrive. After thirty minutes, he appeared in the lobby, clearly surprised that I had wound up on the other side of the city from where I had been lost.

“Olansky, of course, is ready to give you a big speech when you get back.”

“Cool,” I said.

“How the hell did you get all the way here?”

As we left and thanked the receptionist, I began to explain to him what happened.

I suddenly felt safe and knew that I’d be okay because Joachim was with me. Passegiata was over and he was able to walk with me at a reasonable pace, so that my luggage wouldn’t keep tipping over as I walked.

It was true that, in many ways I failed, but at least I tried to find my way and kept my head without really getting upset. It also taught me that, while I didn’t know enough Italian to prevent myself from getting lost, I knew enough to get myself found.

Maybe I wasn’t all that incompetent after all.

Italy Trip: Getting Acquainted

2007-04-22T14:12:00.000-05:00

Joachim Sanchez leaned forward as if he were sharing a secret with the twenty of us gathered in the hotel sitting room. “If any of you ever get lost here, there are three words I want you to use.” He paused just long enough to make sure we were all listening and then perfectly enunciated the Italian “Dove il Campo?”

At a gesture from Joachim, the twenty undergraduates, myself included, repeated the phrase. Many were only half-trying, preferring to botch the pronunciation completely than to get it partly wrong. He made us repeat the phrase five more times, until he heard all of us saying it loudly and pronouncing it correctly.

“Very good,” Joachim nodded. “That means, ‘Where is the Campo?’ The Campo, in case you don’t know, is the town square right down the street from this hotel. Once you find the square, finding the Locanda Garibaldi is easy. Right, Marc?”

“Right,” I said.

“Now,” Joachim continued, “the only one of you who has ever been to Italy is Eileen here. She went on this same trip with Olansky and myself two years ago.”

Eileen, the girl who I had spoken to briefly on the way over, smiled and waved to the group. She looked familiar, which meant she probably reminded me of an obscure actress, but it wasn’t coming to me. Once again, I found myself half wondering what it would be like to take her out to dinner.

“Eileen said she’s willing to help people who can’t find their way around Siena,” said Joachim. “Like Marc, for example.”

I tried to assume as natural a pose as possible considering all eyes were on me and managed what I assumed was an “Oh, what the hell?” smile.

Joachim (who looked a lot like Jimmy Smits) returned his full attention to the others. “How many people here speak some Italian?”

I was on of the few people to raise my hand, despite my lack of any real mastery of the language, would up being the most proficient student on the trip. The other person who knew some Italian was Adnan Elshenaway, an Egyptian-American in a Les Miserables T-shirt who hadn't found it very funny when I told him I preferred the sequel, More Miserables.

“I’m sure Marc wouldn’t mind helping any of you with some difficult conversations, just as long as you don’t use him as a dictionary,” said Joachim. “He’s a good man, but his moral compass is better than his physical one.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You know you’re never gonna live this one down?” Joachim asked.

“I know,” I said.

I actually welcomed the ribbing because I wasn’t particularly sore about the whole experience getting lost. It was a little adventure, and I’d had precious little of that in my lifetime.

The only problem I had with being a celebrity is it meant everybody knew my name before I knew theirs. All the others besides my roommate Sean were practically faceless extras to me in this little drama, like members of the Chorus in a Sophocles tragedy. I had trouble keeping them all straight in my mind.

But I knew who Eileen was.

While I had been wandering the city-state the night before, Sean had picked out a room for us in the hotel. It was one of the few two-bed rooms in the hotel. The other guys on the trip slept in the more barracks-like rooms adjacent to ours, equipped with five beds apiece. Eileen had picked out a room with only one massive bed, that she opted to shared with another girl, Drusilla (who looked a bit like Liv Tyler). These choices delineated from the outset who the loners were and who the social butterflies were. Part of me was glad that Sean had made the decision, but my goal was to become more social and make new friends, not spend my vacation shackled to him. I was worried this would be the first in a series of decisions that Sean would make to divorce us from the rest of the group, which was compromised of exactly the fraternity types he despised. My fears were quickly realized as it soon became clear that he only wanted to eat meals with me in restaurants that he picked out and at times that he approved of. It would also not help any that he quickly turned on Eileen, who I was hoping to spend time with. At this point in the trip, I had no serious designs on her. As someone who rarely had any luck with romance, I often found it a privilege being in the same room with a beautiful woman, let alone cultivating anything more than a friendship with her.

[Pictured here: The Hotel I was supposed to go to in the first place: The Locanda Garibaldi (a.k.a. Hotel Garibaldi.]

I lingered just outside the entrance to the hotel, looking out on the wet streets, wondering why it had rained for the first two days I was in Italy. It had spent a good deal of time walking around Siena since I’d gotten there, but I still didn’t feel like I actually knew what the place looked like. It was just a wall of rain to me so far. I was hoping it would let up soon, so I could enjoy the beauty of the land and take lots of photos of it. If not, I’d go home with twelve unused rolls of film.

I was standing on the ground floor of the hotel, which doubled as a restaurant. Since no food was yet being served, I sat down at once of the empty tables and vaguely considered going to get one of the text books assigned for the class I was supposed to be taking.

Should I read Medieval Italian City States, Religious Poverty and the Profit Economy in Medieval Europe, or Painting in Florence and Siena After the Black Death? Gee, Dr. Olansky sure had a lot of nerve assigning so much work to us. Didn’t he know we were here more to see Italy than for the three-credit class on Medieval Italy? Sure, it would help me complete my minor and I was interested in the topic, but still.

I didn’t notice Eileen until she had sat down across from me.

“Believe it or not, the best book is the one on the Black Death.”

“Really?” I said.

She lightly tapped the cover. “Yes. It got me interested in art, actually. I knew I was in the wrong major when I was reading it and switched from Psychology the next semester.”

“Sounds good.”

“I wouldn’t be too hopeful. Everyone else thinks it’s more boring than watching fly fishing on television.”

I picked it up, trying to find something to do with my hands to keep them from fidgeting. “Then I should like it. I never agree with everyone else.”

“Of course, I’d glad I’m not taking the course again,” she admitted. “I don’t have to read all those books a second time. I’m just along for the ride.”

I put the book back down on the table and pushed it a few inches away from me like a half-eaten meal I didn’t want to finish. “Don’t remind me of that too often. You’ll make me hate you.”

Eileen pulled a pad out from her duffel bag and flipped it open. She then placed alongside it a copy of “Let’s Go Italy” and a map of the country. “You’re going to Rome this weekend, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I know I have to see the Vatican before we leave, but I was considering going to Venice this weekend.”

Eileen pulled a face. “Venice. I hate Venice. There’s nothing to see there. No museums, no good paintings, no good sculptures. It’s only scenery.” She tapped the side of her head with the eraser on her pencil. “No mental stimulation.”

I frowned. This was not the first time I’d heard Venice slammed. In high school, all Mike Bonavita could talk about was how much it smelled. And Joachim said it was way too commercial. But I had to see it.

“My mother said that the sight of St. Marc’s Cathedral was so beautiful that it made her cry,” I said.

“Really?” Eileen was clearly not impressed, but didn’t reiterate her dislike of the region.

“I’m actually named after the Cathedral,” I said.

Eileen smiled. “Oh, now I see why you have to go.” After a heartbeat she added, “But go next weekend. This weekend you have to come with me to Rome.”

I didn’t want to agree right away, because I had Sean to consider. He was banking on Venice this weekend. But I knew that going to Rome with Eileen would be logical and economical because she knew her way around. I was a follower, not a leader, and she seemed like a good team leader to me. Besides, she was cute. And did she look a little like Amy Smart? I guess the answer was that Eileen looked like Eileen, and I should stop “casting” people when I meet them…

“I’d like to,” I said. “I just want to check with Sean.”

“Okay.” She flipped back a page in her pad and turned it around so I could see what was written in it. “I’ve made up an itinerary.” She ran the pencil past a list of names written in impeccable handwriting.

“These are all the churches I have to see,” she explained. “They each have a work of art that’s important to me.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“You know how Moses looked in the Ten Commandments, with the big, white beard?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a church in Rome with the Michaelangelo statue that the image is based on. I just have to see it. I missed it last time, and I just can’t miss it again.”

The next several days were uneventful in that they were filled up with class time. A three-hour lecture in the morning was followed by a three-hour break and then another three-hour lecture. The second lecture was invariable in a Sienese church, where Dr. Olansky [played by Michael Gambon in the upcoming film version of my life] would lead us from fresco to fresco using them to illustrate what life was like in Medieval Italy. Unlike Eileen, I always hated Medieval art, and I found a lot of the subject matters of the drawings difficult to relate to. A lot of it dealt with St. Francis, who I recently decided was a total wacko. (I would later rethink this opinion drastically, but at the time, I thought he was quite weird.) There were plenty of pictures of Old Testament figures, who I didn’t much care for either. Another popular theme was the Slaughter of the Innocents, the killing of all the children in Bethlehem following the birth of Christ. Being particularly sensitive to the notion of dead children, particularly murdered children, I would have found it all hard to take if the artwork were no so arcane. It also helped that Eileen was fairly flip about it.

“Didn’t I tell you that we’d be seeing it everywhere?” she laughed. “In this church, there are three different paintings of the Slaughter of the Innocents. In the church we’re seeing tomorrow, there’s another Slaughter of the Innocents. And there’s more coming still. Pretty soon, you’re going to be seeing the Slaughter of the Innocents everywhere you go. It’ll be stuck in your head and it won’t go away.”

The next several times Olansky led us past a Slaughter of the Innocents, I found myself laughing. By the end of the week, we had seen eight such portraits, and on the ninth, I could barely contain my hysterics, much to Olansky’s chagrin.

Sean and I sat in the second-floor sitting-room, which was just outside our room, trying to figure out where we would be traveling the next day. After a series of agonizing negotiations, plans were still up in the air. I was not happy. I hate unresolved issues.

“We need a guide in Rome,” I said. “We need a long weekend. If we go tomorrow, we’ll have both. If we wait another week, we’ll have neither. Next weekend is short and Venice is small. We can explore it on our own.

“I don’t want to spend three days in Rome,” he said. “It’s a city. I hate cities.”

I could feel myself starting to sweat. “Isn’t there anything you want to see there?”

“There’s a bone mural that Joachim said is good. It’s like a tomb or something called the Cabella Cappucin.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. I’m not interested in anything else.”

After three days of arguing, I was getting pretty tired of Sean insisting on not going to Rome. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“Eileen is planning on seeing a million churches. I hate churches. And I’m not into art much either.”

I found my heart beating faster. The stress was beginning to get to me. “Well, we’ll probably spend a lot of time in the Vatican. Maybe we can even see the Pope.”

“That’s something you’re interested in. I don’t like being Catholic. You do.”

“Jesus Christ, Sean! If you don’t like art, you don’t like cities, and you don’t like Catholicism, then why the fuck did you come to this country? All Italy is, is one giant church filled with art!”

“Don’t shout at me,” Sean said quietly. “I don’t deserve to be shouted at.”

“Sean, all you’ve done from the first moment we got here is complain and pick fights with people. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve wanted to come to this country all my life. If you ruin it for me, I’ll never forgive you.”

Sean didn’t move, but it was clear I had shaken him with the force of my words.

“Don’t put that on me, Marc. It’s not fair.”

“You put it on yourself.”

Eileen chose that moment to appear at the top of the stairs. “How’s happy boy?” she asked.

“Impossible,” I growled, and stalked past her out of the room.

Italy Trip: The Bone Mosaic

2007-04-22T13:54:00.000-05:00

The next day, Eileen led us to the bus on the outskirts of Siena that led directly to Rome. It would be a three-hour trip all told, and she knew the best subway stops to take to reach our hotel from our point of arrival.

Our hotel in Rome was in a filthy, rather urban area, which made Sean extra nervous. This was one of the few times he had ever left his small-town home in … Strawberry Town, NY … and he was not doing well at making the adjustment. It seemed to help him, however, when the hotel room was pretttier on the inside than it was on the outside. In fact, unlike the Locanda Garibaldi, this hotel had bathrooms in every bedroom, a fact I came to appreciate, as I have a tendency to get up at night and I don’t like to travel far.

It was raining that Friday and, since we’d had bad luck with the rain thus far, we didn’t want to waste the day. To appease Sean, it was only the two of us on this leg of the journey. Sadly, two hopeless idiots with a map and no sense of direction meant we spent much of the day wandering aimlessly trying to figure out where the Coliseum was. We did manage to stumble on some of the more humble exhibits, such as the Discus Thrower statue in the Roman Baths, but I was annoyed when we met up with some of the others at the Pantheon.

Naturally, Eileen had seen about even major landmarks in the three hours that it took Sean and me to find one. I promised myself that, argument or no argument, we’d be traveling with the expert tomorrow.

Sean chose this point to once again mention the Cabella Cappucin site Joachim had suggested to him. I shrugged. “Why not?” I’m curious. I don’t know what the hell it is, but I’m curious.”

Eileen overheard the suggestion and found herself curious enough to want to join us. Sean didn’t mind because, for once, she was joining his expedition and not the other way around.

We found it within twenty minutes, under Sean’s direction, because he refused on two occasions to tell Eileen its exact street.

“I just want to take in the city, Eileen,” he said. “If you spend all your time making straight line journeys from point A to point B, you miss out on a lot.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“If you spend all day lost, you miss out on more,” Eileen countered.

It was only after we arrived that we discovered its true name and location ... the Church of Santa Maria della Concezione on the Via Veneto. We found out later that it was a favorite tourist attraction of the Marquis de Sade. If we had known that before going ... we still would have gone.

From the outside, the building looked like a hundred others in the area. The only thing interesting about it was it had two rows of steps leading diagonally to the entrance on the third floor. Sean headed up the stairs first, with Eileen and me following behind.

Sean went through the door and came back and second later with an embarrassed look on his face. “I need a translation.”

I stepped past Sean into a dark, candle-lit room. Standing before me was a balding, bearded monk in a dark brown habit. I felt as if I had been instantly transported back in time more than four hundred years. Somewhere outside, a car horn honked.

The monk silently pointed to a basket by the side of the door, which was labeled with a card that said “Donations” in English and Italian. Figuring it out, I pulled a few bills from my wallet. Not feeling much like doing the math to figure out how many lire equaled a reasonable entry price in American dollars, I just guessed and carelessly dropped a few of the smaller bills into the basket. To this day I have no idea if I was generous, cheap, or about right with what I paid.

The monk gestured down a long, narrow corridor on the right, and the three of us headed that way. I had heard Sean correctly when he used the words “bone,” “mosaic,” and “tomb” to describe the place we were going, but nothing prepared me for the view I was about to receive. Running along the ceiling of the corridor were patterns made from every bone in the human body. There were rows of diamonds made from sets of jaw bones, flowers designs were made from teeth, and lamps of bone hung suspended from the ceiling by leg bones.

As we walked along the hallway, we looked to our left to see the first of several chambers. In each of these chambers were walls of jawless human skulls stacked one on top of the other – hundreds of them, their empty eye sockets staring at us and through us and away from us. In a second chamber, three complete skeletons dresses in monks’ robes stood before another three displays of skulls. In yet another chamber there was a throne made up completely out of what could have been shoulder bones or pelvic bones, or the like. I didn’t know enough about the human body to identify what I was looking at, and I was glad for it. I could pretend it was a strange Lego, or something. After all, on one level, what I was looking at didn’t appear human at all. You don’t mourn a dead thing that doesn’t look human. The problem was, I knew it was human.

On the ceiling of the final chamber, the skeleton of a five-year-old child hung suspended from the ceiling, clutching in its hand a giant scythe made of bone. I looked up at it, trying not to think of abortion or crib death or any dead children of any kind. I tried not to think of the Holocaust or of my dead relatives or of my own mortality. I tried not to think of move stars who I had always loved who had died recently.

“What the fuck is this?” Sean exclaimed. He eyes were wide and a smile of shock, horror and amusement was spread across his face.

“This is the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen,” I said.

“Talk about Slaughter of the Innocents,” Eileen whispered.

Sean pointed to a plaque on the wall beside us. “This says these murals are made from the bones of four hundred monks that died during the Black Death.”

Well, that explains it, I thought. If I had to live through the Black Death, I’d be crazy, too – maybe even crazy enough to build something like this.

That was when I noticed a sign being held aloft by one of the skeletons. “What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you will be.”

“That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever read,” Sean breathed.

“Yeah.”

Not knowing what else to do, Sean and I laughed off the tension. I remembered back in high school there had been a class trip to see a movie on the Holocaust. Marissa Glasser was angry that some students had laughed during the scenes of torture, wondering what kind of people found such tragedy amusing. I had tried to explain to her at the time that laughter was a defense mechanism do deal with fear and pain. I found myself proving myself right there in the monastery.

As I laughed at the four hundred dead monks, I felt insanely guilty, but I just had to do it, or go mad with fear and horror. I wondered what Marissa Glasser would have done if she were here with me in the monastery.

Eileen didn’t keep her reaction a mystery. “Come on, guys, stop.”

“It would be a great pledge location,” Sean observed. “Lock the new guy in here overnight and see if he gets through it without trying to escape or kill himself. If he does, then he’s in.”

“Too right,” I said.

We mingled among the dead for at least ten minutes, drinking in the sight of death, talking about how creepy it was, but not finding a way to get ourselves to leave.

“I’ve had enough,” said Eileen. “I’ll meet you guys outside.”

“No, no,” I said. “We’re coming.”

Before we stepped out the door, Sean and I made sure we got post cards of the displays. We didn’t know why we were paying to keep that sight with us, but I know I wanted to remember exactly how it looked in the years to come.

Two days later, when we would see Joachim again, we laughingly reproved him for suggesting it to us in the first place.

“What the hell was that, Joachim?” Sean needled.

“Cabella Cappucin separates the real Catholics from the ones who are just kidding around,” he said. “I know a lot of Catholics who walked out of that room as Quakers.”

Italy Trip: Women and Religion

2007-04-22T13:48:00.000-05:00

Quakers, huh?

I wondered myself what I had become in that room. What was this country turning me into? I was on sensory overload. In a few days I had seen some of the greatest masterpieces of Western art, I had explored two of the major cities of my homeland, and had immersed myself in the history and theology of my religion.

For years, I had wanted to know who I was. Why was I Catholic? Why was I born Italian and not some other nationality? What does it mean to be Catholic? What does it mean to be Italian? Oddly enough, growing up in the predominantly Italian Richmond had not helped me find myself. All I had ever been able to do was define myself in opposition to others, primarily because it was they who had distanced themselves from me. I had encountered two kinds of people in my life: people who hated Catholics (non-Catholics who blamed them for all the problems in the world) and people who loathed Catholics (ex-Catholics with a chip on their shoulder about a priest who gave them crap when they were a kid over birth control or some such). The moment it was discovered that I was religious, that was it for me. People were afraid of me politically, religiously they assumed I was a fool because I was not an atheist, and romantically … well … let’s face it … religious people aren’t sexy. They just aren’t. So there went my high school dating years. And my glasses and allergies didn’t help matters.

Finding a girlfriend has always been an impossible task, because the relationship would be invariably killed by arguments over abstractions like “progressivism” and “feminism;” and that shouldn’t matter, but it somehow always did. I was tired of defending my every thought and every action to people who did not share my culture, my religion, my politics, or my love of family. The only people who ever accepted me completely were my parents and my brother. And now that I was on the cusp of adulthood, the prospect of leaving them terrified me. Did I really have to go out into a world that seemed completely hostile to everything I held dear?

I was hoping Italy would be the place to go where I would be understood. I was hoping that Italy might be the second home I was always searching for. My hopes were partly dashed by weird sights such as Cabella Cappucin, and the Slaughter of the Innocents. The language barrier was a bigger problem than I expected, and the centuries of history, while making the country fascinating and far more delicious than the 200-year-old United States, meant that I had a lot of catch-up learning to do before I could even hope to assimilate. Were these really my people? Or was I just an American after all?

One thing I certainly did appreciate was the visibility of religious symbolism. America’s Puritanical obsession with the inherent evils of idolatry and public displays of faith had long angered and bored me. What was the good of having a multicultural nation if every culture was afraid of showing its true religious, political, and artistic colors? Words could not describe how glad I was to finally find myself in a country where it was not considered obscene to have a statue of the Virgin Mary out in public. As ever, Mary was a comforting sight to me, and she did make me feel at home.

I had been raised to think of God as a fairly aloof male figure who looked something like Charlton Heston. The fact that God was the man and Mary was the woman would factor rather strongly in my future tendency to pray more to her for intercession than to God. After all, I got along better with women, overall, than I did with men.

My love for Mary began when I had seen a mini-series called “Jesus of Nazareth” when I was a small child. In it a very beautiful actress named Olivia Hussey played Mary. I never forgot when it was like seeing Olivia Hussey as Mary wailing tears of agony over the dead body of her son. What must it be like to lose your only child? Even back then, I knew it was a nightmare. She felt pain, so she could understand my pain. God probably couldn’t feel pain, so how could he understand mine?

So I prayed to Mary. She was a second mother to me.

“I wasn’t raised a believer,” Eileen said.

The two of us stood in front of Michaelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. A pane of glass separated us from the massive statue of the Blessed Mother holding her dead son in her lap. I didn’t like the fact that the glass was there. I felt a distance between the holy family and myself. On top of that, the barrier happened to have a distracting glare reflecting off its surface. The time I saw a duplicate of the Pieta in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan had moved me far more. I was able to stand right in front of it and look at the serenely beautiful face of Mary, and the oddly graceful corpse of my God. That statue has stayed with me ever since, and seeing its genuine counterpart under such circumstance years later was an odd anti-climax.

“I had no contact with religion,” Eileen continued. “And one of my friends, who was Born Again, was trying to tell me a few years ago about the wrath of God. I didn’t buy that. It didn’t sound right. None of it did.”

"I understand," I said.

"But that doesn't stop this from being the greatest work of art I've ever seen."

When returned to Siena the next day, and another week of classes followed. While I listened to Olansky’s lectures, Eileen was free to roam Siena and make plans for her next weekend trip, which would not be Venice. She was planning on going to see Ravenna, and she kept urging me to change my mind and go with her. She tempted me by reminding me that Dante’s tomb is in Ravenna, and he is not only my favorite author, but the man whose political and religious prophecies I’ve partly patterned my code of ethics after. But I had to see San Marco in Venice, and neither of us would budge just for the sake of the other.

Each night, the two of us always ate dinner together with Sean and Drusilla in the Locanda Garibaldi. Each night we’d have a different meal, and each night Sean would wind up with a plate that looked twice as good as mine. My food was always great, but it was still funny to all of us. I was thankful that genuine Italian lasagna tasted totally different that my mother’s, so that her cooking could remain undefeated, even after I tasted the cuisine of the motherland. Sean would get angry any time Drusilla glared at him for eating meat and would respond by further insulting her vegetarian sensibilities with tales of his deer hunting expeditions. While I was sympathetic to Drusilla’s sensitivity to animal rights, I have to admit I was squarely on Sean’s side as I chewed on my meat-filled lasagna.

“That Drusilla’s a piece of ass,” Sean said, “but she’s so liberal it makes me not want her. It kills the whole sexual attraction for me, her whole annoying vegetarian, Unitarian, Commie, feminist, pro-gun-control, holier-than-thou bullshit.”

“That’s funny,” I observed. “I always found Commie vegetarians kind of hot. And Drusilla looks like Liv Tyler, too.”

“Hey,” Sean said, “you’ve already got one girl on this trip. Leave the annoying pinko to me.”

“I’m just saying, if I was you, I’d stick to topics we had in common. She’s pretty and worth getting along with. Yum, yum, yum.”

“I think she has a boyfriend,” Sean said sullenly. “If she didn’t, I just know I could bend her to my will. One night with me and she’ll be singing the praises of Ronald Reagan and the NRA ‘til morning.”

“Well … okay, then. Good luck with that … whole … enterprise,” I said.

Every night after dinner, I would walk around Siena with Eileen. Sometimes Sean and Drusilla came with us and sometimes they didn’t. At the time, the Sylvester Stallone movie “Daylight” was playing at a local theater dubbed in Italian. Since it was a disaster movie, dialogue was not important and we all enjoyed it. We also went to see Madonna in “Evita” two nights in a row because we loved it so. Joachim went with us the first night and announced that it was the worst film he had ever seen. It’s funny how Joachim can speak with perfect conviction about a subject, no matter how profound or how minor, and sway me almost every time. But I still liked “Evita,” even after he was through with me.

It was great spending all this time with Eileen, but I desperately wanted to be alone with her on a date. I wondered what it would be like to have dinner just with her and nobody else. But something like that had to be arranged. There were too many people around us and it was too much of a habit for us all to get together every night for food.

For months prior to this trip, I had fantasized about having an affair in Italy. Would I meet a saucy Italian bar wench or a bookish British tourist? Would it be a short fling or would I be meeting my future wife? I had thought it all nonsense, as things never work out for me, but how that I had an opportunity to fulfill such a fantasy, I found myself afraid. I had such a nice friendship with her. Why would I want to ruin it? For the opportunity to kiss her? To make out with her? There would almost certainly not be sex, considering both our personalities. Was it worth the risk?

A few evenings later, I returned to my bedroom in the Locanda Garibaldi to greet Sean with a sullen face.

“I don’t know what to do about Eileen,” I said.

“That makes two of us,” Sean replied.

It was clear Sean was not overly interested in the conversation, but I needed to talk to him. “I think she knows I’m attracted to her.”

“And?”

“She’s pushing me away.”

“So don’t hang out with her anymore.”

I sighed. “But the weird thing is, I think she likes me. At least, I think she does. I’m getting mixed signals.”

“I don’t know, Marc. She spends a lot of time following you around, but that might not mean anything. She might just want to be your friend, or some bullshit like that.”

“I’ve just been talking to her for two hours in her room,” I said. “For a while, it was a great conversation. She talked to me about why she loves medieval art and how her dream is to one day become a coach for the Mets.”

“That’s great. You hate baseball and medieval art.”

I smiled. “I thought I did, but she’s so enthusiastic about these things that it rubs off on me. I see the beauty of the art and the excitement of the sports through her. You know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Anyway, we got to talking and I was so excited by her that I tried to move in closer. I wanted to kiss her. But the last time I tried to kiss a girl, she didn’t want me to and I chased her away.”

“Nancy,” Sean said.

“Exactly. I didn’t want that to happen again, but I didn’t want to be a wuss and ask to kiss her. That’s lame.

Sean was beginning to pay closer attention to what I was saying. “What did you do?”

“When the moment seemed right, I lightly brushed her cheek with my hand and told her she was beautiful.”

“What happened?”

I dropped down onto my bed and stared up at the high, white ceiling. “I think it embarrassed her. I don’t think she’s used to that kind of attention.”

Sean laughed. “That doesn’t sound too good for you.”

“Well, she spent the last half hour telling me how she never wants to get married or have kids, and since the only purpose of dating is to find someone to marry, she doesn’t have much use for that either.”

“What was her response to you telling her she’s beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Then to hell with her.”

I cleared my throat. “I think she’s trying to protect me from falling for her because she knows we can’t be together.”

“She’s right,” Sean said. “You’ll regret this down the line.”

Then I remembered: What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you will be.

“I don’t care about the future,” I said. “All I care about is right now.”

“She lives in Connecticut and you live on Richmond County.”

“If I’m too scared to make a move in this situation, where there’s little to lose and a lot to gain, then how can I hope to be brave when the stakes are higher?”

“You’ll probably never see each other again after this trip is over.”

“All the more reason to act as quickly as possible,” I said.

“It’s not worth it.”

What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you will be.

“I’m tired of being afraid of living,” I said. “I’m going to do it.”

Two nights later, as I was sitting in Eileen’s room, I said to her, “How it is somebody as pretty as you has no boyfriend?”

It was ground we had already covered, of course, but this time I wasn’t going to let her convince either of us that she wasn’t good enough for me. If anything, I wasn’t good enough for her, but I couldn’t let myself think that way or I was doomed from the start.

Eileen smiled and looked down on the bed. “I don’t know. I just don’t. I haven’t been on a date since I was nineteen.”

“Five years?”

Eileen nodded, a little sadly. “I don’t have much use for dating, anyway.”

I paused. I had been planning to do this for days, and I was finally ready to do it. “Would you mind if I asked you to dinner? You know, just the two of us.”

“I’d like that very much,” Eileen said softly.

The dinner date happened several days later. We were oddly formal with one another at the outset, typical of two people who had very little experience with romance. Neither of us knew what we were doing, so we were very forgiving of one another. After we got to the restaurant, it became pretty clear to me that Eileen was not the sort of person who responded well to gentlemanly gestures like opening doors or buying flowers. This put me more on my guard, because those traditions had always helped me demonstrate my feelings in the past, and now I was no longer able to use them as a crutch. So I decided to be natural and just talk to her as I had been all along.

I made no romantic moves towards her last night because she didn’t seem ready for them, and the time wasn’t right. I wanted our relationship to evolve slowly and naturally.

The evening was so enjoyable that I was only partly disappointed that I didn’t get a kiss.

I still didn’t know exactly where I stood with her, because she was so eccentric in so many ways, but I knew she wouldn’t agree to the date if she didn’t feel something for me.

Right?

Italy Vacation: Castle Montalcino

2007-04-22T13:38:00.000-05:00

The next major outing was to a castle in Montalcino. Olansky chartered a bus to take us all to the structure, which stood in the middle of the most beautiful scenery I had ever seen in my life. Describing it is virtually impossible. I try to put it into words and wind up falling back on “rolling green hills covered in mist.” Such clichéd words never fail to conjure up an image for me of a misty-eyed Irishman talking about the old country. But the words do fail to conjure up Montalcino.

I wonder if I had ever really seen a horizon before that day on Montalcino. Growing up in the crowded suburbs, I’ve rarely had an opportunity to see a clear sky, or miles of undeveloped land. Before that day, the closest I got to seeing untouched land was watching farm houses go by as I drove along the expressway to my college in upstate New York. And both the farm and the highway were there to spoil the expansiveness of the grass.

The castle was obviously man-made, but it was so old and made of stone, which is a very natural material, so it seemed almost as if it grew out of the ground naturally. Olansky gave us some time to wander around the castle, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sean so happy in my life. He ran up and down the battlements whooping out with joy. As a lifelong “Dungeons and Dragons” fans, as well as a devout worshipper of the move “Braveheart,” perhaps he had felt that he had come home.

I, on the other hand, was moving very carefully along the crumbling battlements, wondering how anyone could stand guard on such a precarious position, let alone defend it during a siege. One false move and you were a bloody pancake on the floor.

Sean stopped running around long enough to notice how unsteady I was on my feet.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

I smiled sheepishly.

“You got to be kidding. This is the coolest thing ever, and you’re scared?” He laughed and then continued running around, pretending to brandish a sword.

Eileen appeared with Drusilla at her side and the two began exploring the part of the castle I had already discovered. At each corner of the castle there was a tower that rose another fifty feet above the level we were standing on, which was already very high. Eileen made her way to one such tower and stared up at a very long ladder made of sturdy pieces of wood.

“That looks scary,” she said.

She started hesitantly up the ladder and stopped halfway. She looked down and laughed at herself, embarrassed at being afraid.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Just head on up. Don’t look down.”

She nodded and crept her way up. When she disappeared through the hole at the top of the tower, a series of thoughts ran through my head. If I darted up the ladder as quickly as I can, I can impress her by being extra brave. I can also be alone with her at the top of the tower. Maybe that would be a good time to kiss her. I can kiss a lady in a tower. Sean’s Arthurian Romance high was becoming contagious.

Without looking down, I climbed the ladder as quickly as I could. Reaching the top, I leaned through the hole and landed on what was probably the smallest elevated platform I had ever stood on. The half-ruined tower was missing large chunks of its wall, so there would be no barrier preventing anyone who wanted to from simply walking off the edge. Everywhere I looked, I saw a huge drop. I front of me there was a sheer drop along the side of the castle. On my left was another drop where I could splatter myself all over the castle interior. Behind me, I could fall to my death down the ladder.

Eileen tossed her arms back and breathed in the open air. “What a wonderful view!” she cried.

“Oh, my God,” I murmured.

I was feeling dizzy. I didn’t want to move my legs because any step would take me closer to the edge. But not moving my legs made me feel wobbly. Each time I wobbled, I saw the drop. Maybe I should just go back down the ladder. I got up it, I could go down.

I looked at the ladder, and realized that the first run was so far down that I’d have to lower myself waist-deep into the hole until my feet found support. Then I saw the drop past the first rung.

I dropped myself to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest, too afraid to do anything but stare off into nothingness. I wouldn’t allow my eyes to register the sky around me. I had always been afraid of heights, but I’d never had such an attack of anxiety. I’d never felt so vulnerable.

“Are you okay, Marc?” Eileen asked. She rested a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

God, why does she have to see me like this? Why do I have to be so weak in front of a woman? I have to be strong. I have to impress her so she loves me. I want to be worthy, but how can I be if I’m so afraid?

Drusilla popped her head up from the hole in the ground. “Ah, it’s nice up here.” She hoisted herself up off the ladder and out of the hole onto the tower.

“What’s wrong with Marc?” she asked as she got settled.

“Nothing. I’m okay,” I said.

Two more people climbed up, and I wondered how we could all fit on such a small tower. As they walked around the hole in the floor, they had to avoid bumping into one another. None of them seemed scared.

“What a beautiful view,” said Sean, when he joined us.

Eileen moved closer to me and said as gently as she could, “Do you want me to help you down the ladder?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to go down first and you follow, or do you want me to help lower you down?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice wavering. As mortified as I was, I tried to be big about it and laugh at myself. I managed a smile and a small laugh.

“You have to tell me, or I can’t help you,” said Eileen.

“I’ll go first.” I moved slowly towards the hole in the ladder and then stopped abruptly.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Do you want me to go first?” Eileen whispered.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Eileen walked over to the hole and tried to figure out how to lower herself onto the ladder. She sat on the edge of the hole, dangling her legs in the air over the first rung. She then planted her hands on either side of the hole and pushed her bottom over the edge. She hung in the air a moment, supported only by her locked arms. Then she bent her elbows and her feet found ground. Once this was done, she had to do an awkward maneuver to turn herself around so she could back down the stairs.

After a moment, she was ready and climbed quickly down the stairs. Several seconds went by.

“Marc!”

“Yes?”

“I made it down.”

“Okay.”

“Come and see.”

I slowly leaned forward and peered into the hole. She was at the base of the ladder, looking up at me.

“You can do it, Marc.”

Sean, who was still on the tower with me agreed. “You can do it, man.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “Okay.”

I stood up and tried to will myself to the ladder. I was posed as if I would start walking at any moment, but I wasn’t moving. A long moment passed with me standing there.

“What are you trying to do, use the Force?” asked Sean. “Just go down the fucking ladder.”

I laughed, and that joke was all I needed to break the tension. I’d had it with looking the fool in front of Eileen.

Focusing only on her face, I duplicated the same maneuver she used to find the first rung of the ladder. The moment my feet reached the rung, I knew I was home free. I went down the ladder as quickly as I could. Suddenly, I found myself at Eileen’s side again.

She gave me a thumbs up sign. “There you go. You made it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That sucked.”

She pointed up at the hole in the tower where Sean had appeared to make his descent. “You looked so cute when you’re head appeared up there, looking down on me. You had this adorable, frightened chipmunk face on.”

I pictured it in my mind and laughed. “Good lord, I can imagine.”

On the bus ride back to Siena, Eileen was oddly cool to me. We sat next to one another, but she seemed to not want to speak to me at all. Saying she was no feeling well, she placed headphones over her ears and started listening to her Ringo Starr CD. She didn’t speak the entire trip back.

After reaching the hotel, I complained to Sean about her for twenty minutes. He agreed with everything I said about her, but no longer opposed my continued passive pursuit of her. He just couldn’t care enough to oppose it because he didn’t want to see me with a girl he hated so much. I would later feel the same way about his girlfriend, Monica, so I can no longer fault him, in hindsight.

Shortly after nightfall at 6:30, I went to Eileen’s room. I sat on her bed beside her as she made up a list of all the Mets games of the current season and tried to calculate how many she’d be able to realistically see commuting from Connecticut. She spoke rapidly and nervously as she told me about it, once again an odd mixture of tension and eagerness in my presence. Half of her seemed to be screaming out for me to kiss her while she other half just wanted to make me go away.

“Do you want to take a walk?”

It was two hours earlier than we would usually walk with Drusilla and Sean, so the request was definitely special, especially considering what had been going on with us over the past few days. I had also failed to mention asking either of our friends to accompany us.

She considered it for a moment before giving an only slightly hesitant, “Yes.”

It was a cold night out. The two of us walked side by side to the D’Uomo, the main church of Siena. It was her favorite building in the city, and we would often include it on her walks, but she was particularly insistent that we head directly for the church. It was a none-too-subtle way of telling me she was still confused about our relationship.

When we reached the church, she asked that we go to the other side of the main square and sit on a low all across from its façade. I sat next to her on the cold stone and looked with her at the dozens of saints’ statues on the Gothic structure. She looked like she was considering saying something about the artistry of the church, but stopped.

As I sat there with her, looking at the church, I knew there would never be a better time. She was ready and so was I. This would be something I would remember for the rest of my life.

I reached down and gently placed my hand on hers. She lowered her head and smiled in muted disbelief.

I laced my fingers through hers and moved closer to her.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “There must be so many things you’d rather be doing than sitting here with me.”

“There are,” I said, and I leaned forward to kiss her.

She lifted her head to mine, letting my lips touch hers. I placed my arm around her waist and pulled her closer to me as I kissed her. I felt a rush of excitement as I felt the warmth of her body through her coat.

Once the kiss started, we abandoned all the inhibitions that had been crippling us from the beginning and let ourselves let in the moment. She put her arm tentatively around my neck and kept kissing me, not doing anything to push me away as she had done so often over the past weeks.

I wondered how it was that this was happening to me, even though I had helped make it happen. How was I with this wonderful person? What did I do to deserve her?

I shoved the unwanted thoughts aside. Even though I knew that Eileen and I might never be together again after we returned to America, I felt happy, and I felt alive. For the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid of living.

As we kissed, I was aware of the D’Uomo beside us, standing there as it had always stood, every day for the past five hundred years.

And it was good.

Italy Vacation: Sudden Perspective Shift

2007-04-22T13:09:00.000-05:00

The next day, Eileen was once again cold to me.

I was stumped.

I thought about it all day.

What to do?

Then it hit me.

Flowers.

This would be the first time I ever bought roses for a girl outside getting my mother a bouquet on Mother’s Day, and I was looking forward to stepping into the role of boyfriend tremendously. What fun. And so, I ventured out into passegiata, enjoying the bustle of people, my spirits lifted by the plan. I remembered vaguely a flower shop nearby a local “fast food” pasta outlet and found my instincts to be correct.

As I explained my mission to the friendly proprietress, I discovered that I was becoming quite good at conversational Italian by now. The woman was very impressed by my attempt at the language, kindly ignoring my rather large oversight of addressing her in the informal “tu” instead of the formal “Lei.”

The bouquet she presented me with was uncomfortable large, considering I assumed I had only paid the equivalent of twenty dollars worth of lire for it. It was not the kind of thing I could make invisible by tucking under my arm as I walked into the hotel, and I knew that the last thing Eileen would want is for me to broadcast to the rest of the students that I was buying her flowers. It would embarrass her. So I slipped my raincoat off and started to drape it over the bouquet. No. The coat would crush the flowers. The large set of red petals and long green stems wrapped in a clear plastic vase would have to remain visible. I decided all I had to do was walk casually as I approached the hotel and hope that nobody saw me.

As I walked past the Palazzo Pubblico down the sidestreet where the hotel rested, I found himself crossing paths with Drusilla and Adnan Elshenaway, who were headed out for a walk. Much to my mortification, Drusilla asked in a teasing, sing-song voice,
“Who are the flowers for, Marc?”

“Nobody,” I smiled as I walked past the two and continued up to the hotel entrance.

“I’m sure Eileen will love them,” Drusilla called back.

* * *

After I disappeared into the hotel, leaving Drusilla and Adnan alone to continue walking towards the Campo, Drusilla turned to Adnan and said, “Why don’t you think my boyfriend back home ever buys me flowers?”

[Remember readers: Drusilla looks like Liv Tyler, if you need someone to picture.]

Adnan shrugged. “Bob? He’s a loser. That’s why he doesn’t buy you flowers.”

“I’ve been thinking of giving him the heave-ho lately,” Drusilla said. “He’s clingy and possessive and he clearly has decided that I’m some kind of mother replacement for him. He makes me feel like I’m on a lease 24/7, you know? Like I’m his to own and command at a given moment.”

“You wouldn’t be much of a feminist if you kept dating a guy like that,” Adnan observed.

Drusilla nodded decisively. “You said it. From now on, I take crap from no one. Least of all Bobby.”

“You’re in Italy,” Adnan said. “Love is in the air. Be reckless. Cheat on the loser.”

“I dunno,” Drusilla sighed. “It wouldn’t be nice. I should go back home and break up with him first. Then it would all be on the up-and-up if I went off with someone else.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t be in Italy any more,” Adnan said. “And it would be too late for a romance in Italy.”

“Yeah.”

“What, are you married to the guy, or something? Go have a fling!” Adnan commanded. “You wouldn’t be much of a feminist if you didn’t cheat on him. Remember A Doll’s House? The Awakening? Lady Chatterly? Your favorite books!”

[By the way, Adnan looks a little like Ajay Naidu from Office Space.]

“I like Anna Karenina better than all of those.”

Adnan spread his arms wide. “Well…”

“Yeah,” Drusilla shrugged. “You’re right.” She paused. “But I don’t want to dump him. I’m not ready to dump him. I may keep him yet. I just want to set some new ground rules when I get back. Like giving me some space.”

“Fair enough. But before you go back to him … while you’re here … do me a favor and have some sex with a hot Italian guy.”

“No sex. But I’ll make out with one for a good five hours. Maybe third base. Or a long lead off third...”

“Okay,” Adnan said. “Good enough.”

They fell silent for a full minute as they walked.

“I’d make out with you if you weren’t gay,” Drusilla concluded.

“Sorry,” Adnan said.

* * *

Whenever a problem preyed on Eileen Harris’ mind, she began to feel the tension build in her stomach. The greater the problem became, the tighter the knot in her stomach was pulled. By now, the nausea had risen to a crescendo, sapping her of all her strength, keeping her too dizzy to stand. For the past sixty-seven minutes she lay on her back diagonally across the double bed that she and Drusilla shared, pressing a damp white cloth to her forehead.

Marc, Marc, Marc. It was so wonderful when she was with him. He was so sweet and funny. He made a wonderful friend. So why did he have to go and ruin it by kissing her? Now everything was so complicated.

It wasn’t that Marc was a bad kisser. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him. He was fairly good-looking. But she couldn’t stop thinking, even when he held her in his arms last night, first outside the D’Uomo and then back here in the hotel room. She enjoyed making out with him tremendously, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing through every possible ending to their relationship.

She lived near Buffalo and he lived six hours away in Richmond County. Six hours. After they graduated, would he have to drive six hours each weekend just to see her? And, for God’s sake, the boy was allergic to cats. How could she date anyone who couldn’t set foot in her house without breaking out in hives? Would he drive six hours to see her just to spend the entire visit talking to her on the front steps of her house? And where would he sleep? In a sleeping bag on the lawn under her apple tree? In a hotel? The hotel bills for the first month of their relationship alone would be enormous.

How could she allow herself to fall in love with him when the dynamics of their relationship would be so complicated? Besides, it was destined to end badly, of that she was certain. She had always vowed never to get married, never to have children, and that was what Marc wanted from her more than anything. If not now, then if their relationship really went somewhere…

Ridiculous. Patently absurd. The deck was stacked against them and Eileen was not much of a gambler to begin with. She liked to be in control. She liked to be prepared for every possible contingency, and there were too many variables. Her logical mind was on the verge of a short circuit.

She would have to talk to him about it. But what could she possibly say to him? He seemed so excited about this so-called relationship. Sean was just saying this morning that Marc was giddier than he had ever been during his entire schoolboy life. Would Marc even understand what she was talking about? For an intelligent person, he could behave very illogically, very melodramatically.

Well, hopefully Marc’s romantic streak will take a rest, she thought. I’m sure he noticed I gave him the cold shoulder on the bus ride home. That was a clear enough message that he’s pushing me too hard. He’d have to be an idiot not to realize that I need some space. If he keeps his distance from me for a few days, I’m sure our feelings for each other will die down and we’ll be able to go back to being just friends. That’s much easier. Much safer. It’s the only logical decision.

There was a timid knock on her bedroom door.

“Yes?” she groaned.

Marc poked his head in. “Can I come in?”

Eileen sighed and sat up. “Yes.”

“I noticed you weren’t yourself today, so I got you something to help make you feel better.” At that, Marc jumped dramatically into the room and, striking a heroic pose, presented her with a giant bouquet of roses. “Ta-da!”

Oh, shit.

Beaming, Marc handed her the bouquet. “Here you go.”

Eileen turned the bouquet over in her hands, staring at the vibrant red flowers. They were lovely. They also looked expensive.

I’m definitely going to throw up. Any second now. Puke all over the place.

“What do you think?” asked Marc, who was starting to look nervous.

“Very…nice. Pretty.” Eileen tried to smile, but it came out more like a frown. I think I’m gonna die. Dear God, I’m gonna die.

Marc shuffled from one foot to the other. “So, I was worried about you. I don’t like to see you looking so glum, you know. You’re very cool and you should be happy.”

“Thanks,” Eileen murmured. Go away, please. Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away, go away. I can’t take it anymore.

Marc looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. First he put them behind his back, then he put them in his pockets, then he dropped them at his side. “I hope I haven’t offended you by getting you these flowers.”

Eileen didn’t respond right away to that one, and the tension level in the room jumped four hundred percent. Marc, fully aware that he was losing ground with each passing second, tried to find the right words and failed.

“I know you don’t like it when I open doors for you and pull chairs out for you. I’m not really sure what the etiquette is these days for…you know…hanging out with…women who think old-fashioned stuff like flowers is repressive and all that jazz.”

“No, no,” Eileen said, too quickly to sound natural. “They’re fine.”

“So I got you flowers, because I figured it was what I was supposed to do, and I wanted to do it because I like you, but I hope that you’re not someone who reacts badly to flowers, you know? So if the gift is bad, then I’m sorry.”

“They’ll need water.” Eileen stood up and walked over to a large thermos of water on her bureau. She pulled the roses out of the clear plastic vase they were in and slipped them into the thermos.

“Do you need water?” Marc blurted out. “I mean, if you’re not well, I can ask Marcello to make you some tea. I can get you some cookies, or something. Or aspirin.”

Eileen smiled weakly at him and sat down again on the bed. I’m torturing him. I’m tearing him to pieces and all he did was buy me a present. Why am I doing this? Does he deserve this shit I’m giving him? Why can’t I smile at him? Why can’t I give him a real thank you for these lovely flowers? What the fuck is wrong with me, anyway?

“No, no aspirin,” she said. Damn, she thought. That was a mistake too. I should have given him a mission. Something to make him feel useful. Something to help him save face and give him a graceful escape from this horrible, stifling room.

Now sweat was gathering on Marc’s brow. “Well, I can see you still look a little sick, so I’ll let you get some rest.”

“No.” Eileen jumped to her feet and grabbed Marc by the wrist. “Wait.”

Marc was afraid to look her in the face. “Yes?”

There was a lump in Eileen’s throat that made it hard for her to speak. “I want to thank you. Really. Thank you for the flowers. I do like them. I really do. You look like you don’t believe that, and I don’t blame you, but I really like them.”

Marc looked at her, searching her eyes to see if she was telling the truth.

Then the thought, unbidden, jumped into Eileen’s mind. Kiss me again, Marc.

He saw the invitation in her eyes and brought his lips up to hers.

Marc and Eileen were rolling around on top of the bed covers, kissing each other amorously. With the pleasure came relief, for Marc knew he’d been granted an eleventh hour stay of execution and he was enjoying every moment of it. Terrified of doing anything to end this bliss, Marc fought the urge to try to take her clothes off, contenting himself with exploring the curves of her body through her clothes. The night before they had made out for minutes at a time, pausing a few times to rest, holding one another and stroking each other’s hair, before beginning again. He knew she had enjoyed it last night just as he had, and he expected that they would spend at least as much time together tonight.

He knew he was wrong when he felt her start to fight him. He couldn’t believe it. She was still fighting him. Why? If she didn’t want him to kiss her, then why didn’t she pull away the moment he tried to make a move? Why stop now? What was the problem?

He remembered what had happened last time they stopped kissing. She gave him the cold shoulder for nearly a day. What would happen if he stopped kissing her now? Would she ever let him kiss her again? He decided he would try to ignore her wriggling for as long as possible. Maybe if he could make his kisses and caresses all the more pleasing to her, focus all his energy on electrifying her senses, she wouldn’t break away from him. It was what he had been trying to do all along, but he redoubled his efforts, knowing that he only had a few moments to prove himself before her protests grew too great.

“We have to stop,” she whispered between kisses.

Jesus Christ. Marc stopped, burying his face in the covers.

“Can you - ?”

“Yes, yes,” Marc grumbled, rolling off of Eileen and sitting up on the bed. Eileen sat up and traced her fingers through her hair, combing the wild strands back into place. She has that long-suffering look back on her face. The one that made him feel like he was as pleasant to be around as an eighty-year-old longshoreman with roving hands and a massive erection. Well, he wasn’t about to let her tear his heart out for the third time in one day.

Marc stood up abruptly and shot Eileen an angry look. “Look, if I make you feel that uncomfortable, then I’ll stay out of your way.”

His fists balled at his side, he stalked across the room and stopped in front of the door. He looked at her again, waiting for her to stop him from leaving. She was staring glumly down at her own hands, folded on her lap.

“I’m tired of pushing you. I’m tired of being the bad guy.”

Eileen didn’t say a word.

“It’s your move now. If you want me, I’ll be upstairs.” Furious and humiliated, Marc tore open the bedroom door and strode outside, almost crashing into Joachim’s barrel chest.

“Marc, I wanted to –“

Marc continued past Joachim and head up the stairs to his room. “Not now, Joachim. Please.”

Does he want me to follow him? Eileen wondered. Or am I the last person he wants to see right now? No. He wants me to follow him.

Eileen started to stand up, but her nervous stomach replied with a nauseous lurch that dragged her back to her seat. No. She was in no condition to go chasing after him. He’d made her too upset. He’d done this to her, made her sick with worry. The bastard. If only she could lay down a little while, until the nausea passed, but her room seemed smaller now than it had been even a few minutes ago and now she was beginning to understand where the cliché “the walls felt like they were closing in” came from.

Decisively, she fought the sickness in her stommach and stood up, tossing on her long emerald coat and daring out of her room. She raced past a taciturn Joachim, who was loitering like a lost soul in the second-floor parlor, and proceeded down the spiral staircase to the main floor restaurant. Thankfully, there was no sign of Marc or any of her other enemies at the moment. No Sean. She couldn’t take any sniping at this particular moment. She had to get some air. She had to get to the D’Uomo. Maybe if she stood outside the church, a place she had found so inspiring in so many ways, the place where she and Marc had first kissed, she might know better what to do.

She crossed the Campo, navigating past several picnicking couples and groups of friends standing in ill-defined circles talking with one another in various and sundry languages. From what she understood of Italian, she overheard one bald man insisting that Savonarola was a great man and didn’t deserve being executed on the spot in the past, just missing the substance of his friend’s rebuttal.

Marc’s right. I’m being unreasonable. Why won’t I give him a chance to prove himself? What am I so afraid of? What if Marc and I can work something out? What if he’s willing to make the commute to see me each week? Maybe, for once, I can have a boyfriend who possesses some small degree of intelligence instead of having to settle for some of the terrible boys I went to grammar school with. Or is this what I’m afraid of? Have I been alone so long that I’m afraid to take the risk of being with someone?

Eileen was so consumed with self-doubt and self-reflection, psychological and romantic analysis of Marc’s motivation, and strategic planning of how their next meeting would go that she barely realized her feet had carried her to the D’Uomo until she came to a stop in front of the black-and-white striped giant. Once the sight of the mammoth structure sank in, Eileen felt the tears start to fill her eyes. She realized that she couldn’t think her way around this problem. She had to clear her thoughts and see what her heart told her. She had to pray. Before she could begin her invocation, she was distracted by the approach of a handsome Italian soldier.

“I hate to see someone so beautiful look so depressed,” said the young man.

Eileen rubbed the tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not depressed,” she protested, ridiculously.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, his noble brown eyes searching out hers.

Eileen laughed humorlessly. “I wish there were.”

“Is it your boyfriend?” the soldier asked without irony.

“He’s not my…,” Eileen began hastily, and then realized she might be lying. “Well he’s…it’s my…it’s…well, I suppose he’s something of…unless he just broke it off, or unless I did. I don’t know what he is. I don’t know what we are.”

“And that’s the problem?” said the man, as if he now understood the situation completely. “You do not know how you feel about him yet, and he’s run out of patience.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Eileen confessed miserably.

“It’s too bad he’s felt the need to put so much pressure on you,” the man said sadly, pressing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was cool, but reassuring.

Eileen turned to look at the tall man. “It’s just all happening so fast. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. The last time I came here with students they were all so insipid. I never expected to meet another student who affected me the way Marc does. It all came as a total surprise to me.”

“But that is a good thing,” the man smiled.

“Is it?”

“But of course. Surprise is the greatest gift life can give us. It keeps things exciting. It keeps us off balance. If we were able to predict everything that would happen to us before it happened, wouldn’t life be the most colossal bore?”

Eileen shifted her eyes sideways, avoiding the soldier’s searching gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I love surprises. Take now, for instance. I’m on leave from my assignment for the next two days. I was just going out for a little while to enjoy the night. The last thing I expected to see was a woman as lovely and enchanting as you standing outside the D’Uomo looking for a friendly person to talk to. I didn’t expect any of this, but it’s a surprise, and it’s a wonderful one.”

Eileen felt herself starting to cry again and didn’t know why. “It’s a wonderful surprise?”

She didn’t expect the soldier to place his hand gently under her chin and lift her face slowly up to his. His deep-set eyes were filled with affection and concern. Eileen felt herself start to blush.

“A wonderful surprise,” he repeated, smiled a perfect white smile.

Eileen smiled back. “Thank you.”

* * *

It had been several days since Sean tinkered with the keyboards outside the music shop where he’d impressed the beautiful Italian babes. He’d grown weary of trying to recreate that success after several failed attempts, but he was sure this time he’d be able to draw a few hot chicks out of hiding. There was something in the air tonight. There was an atmosphere of change, as if everything was coming to a head, and he wanted to be a part of it. Besides, he needed something to do to amuse himself while his friend was fooling around with Eileen. (What a fucking bore that was.) And so, Sean decided to stop off in his room for some sheet music, totally unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

The bedroom was a yin-yang of chaos and order, with Marc’s half of the room the picture of destruction, and Sean’s half as perfectly pristine as he had left it. The bedcovers had been violently torn off Marc’s mattress and hurled into the corner of the room, leaving three empty suitcases in sole possession of the top of the bed. There was clothing hanging from the bedpost, the lamp, the front door, the closet, and the end table. Souvenir posters, postcards, and miniatures were scattered about the floor like spilled bits of candy. One randomly tossed shirt seemed to land at exactly the midpoint of the room, refusing to stray any farther over to Sean’s side for fear of being accused of invading Sean’s sanctuary and dirtying it up. It was as if a violent storm had briefly erupted in the bedroom, focusing its entire wrath on Marc’s possessions while maintaining just enough self-control to stop itself from succumbing to the temptation to vent its fury on Sean’s luggage as well.

In the midst of the wreckage sat Marc, his back turned against the side of his bed, his arms hugging his legs to his chest, his forehead resting on his knees. “Sorry about all that,” he muttered, his face still buried against his jeans. “Lost a bit of control there. Won’t happen again.”

“Oh, man.” Sean looked first at his side of the room, then at Marc’s and scratched his head. He tried to figure out what might have caused Marc to go on this strange rampage. It didn’t take long for him to strike on the right answer. “Eileen running hot and cold again?”

Marc looked up at the room, amazed at his own display of frustration. “Look at this place. It’s the work of a nut. I don’t do things like this normally. This is totally out of character for me. I’m going crazy, aren’t I?”

“I don’t blame you.” Sean walked over to his end table and opened the drawer, rummaging through his music for songs to play.

“Like Baldrick, I had a cunning plan,” Marc said, smiling to himself over an inside joke. “It backfired. I tried to provoke Eileen into pursuing me and all it did was chase her farther way.”

“What happened?”

Marc chuckled. “Let’s put it this way. Me and Eileen aren’t speaking each other’s language. I’m talking feelings and living for the moment, and she’s talking ‘reason’ and planning for tomorrow. Talk about sense and sensibility! I feel like Dr. McCoy trying to make love to Mr. Spock’s more stoic twin sister.”

Sean pulled out the three pieces of sheet music he was most interested in and returned the others to the drawer. “Please stop with the Star Trek stuff so I can understand what you’re talking about.”

“I dunno. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m not handsome enough.”

“Nonsense,” Sean scolded. Suddenly worried about his sword, Sean peered under his bed and found it resting where he had left it, concealed within a large plastic poster tube. Impulsively, he scooped the tube out from its hiding place and decided that he’d be taking his sword out with him. In case any girls showed up to watch him play, he could always impress them further by showing off this lovely weapon.

“Is it?” Marc asked rhetorically. "Women have given me all kinds of 'reasons' they won't date me. I’m too religious. I’m not religious enough. I move too quickly. I'm too slow. I'm a member of the wrong political party. I don't like Friends and I should. Unless, of course, those are all rationalizations to explain away a lack of physical chemistry.... Unless, of course, those religious and political tensions are strong enough to defeat a genuine attraction... Unless … I don’t know! How is any of this supposed to make me feel good about myself?”

“Now, I can’t stand talk like that. That’s stupid stuff.” Sean adjusted his collar, noticing at that moment how hot it was. The weighty conversation was not the only thing making the room stuffy. It was a humid night out. He went over to the window to let a breeze in. He hand was on the lock, primed to open it, when he saw Eileen standing on the street below talking to an Italian paratrooper. Although Sean couldn’t hear what Eileen and the soldier were saying to one another, their body language spoke volumes. Friends didn’t stand as close together as they were standing.

Uh-oh, Sean thought.

“Maybe I’m just boring and sexless,” Marc thought aloud, trying to sound as if he were analyzing himself dispassionately, from afar, but each word was soaked in tortured emotion. “I’ve always known it. That’s why I hate reading books like Madame Bovary and The Awakening and Women in Love. I’m the bad guy in all of them: the boring, nerdy bourgeois husband who the wife tosses over for the dumb handsome guy with the enormous ... sex appeal.”

Sean had a moment of hope when the soldier grabbed for Eileen’s waist and she pulled away, pointing towards the hotel. Sean couldn’t tell if she was objecting to the advance because she wanted to be loyal to Marc or because she was afraid they’d get caught. Sean wondered if he should tell Marc what he was looking at. He didn’t relish the thought of being the one to break the news, but he certainly didn’t want to be the one to withhold it.

“Unfortunately, it’s kind of hard to be an English major and not read four thousand books about why adultery is the greatest thing since sliced bread,” Marc rambled on. “Being a middle class nerd myself, these books sure don’t make me feel good about my prospects keeping my prospective girlfriend happy and sexually satisfied, that’s for sure. They’ve got me convinced the only way I can make a sexy, independent women wet is to toss her in a swimming pool.”

The soldier grabbed Eileen again, seizing her roughly in his arms and kissing her passionately. All her prospects ended in that moment and her body melted against the paratrooper’s.

Marc uncurled himself from his fetal position and pulled his protesting body off the floor. He was already becoming more himself again. It seemed that wrecking the room and complaining to Sean had the therapeutic effect needed to return him slowly to his old self. “But that kind of talk is ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s defeatist. I should just be happy that I had the time with her that I did. She is very beautiful after all.”

And a very enthusiastic kisser, Sean thought, watching Eileen and the paratrooper continue exchanging lusty kisses. “Um, Marcus?”

“Yeah?” Marc walked casually over to the window, curious to know what Sean was staring at.

Sean held up a hand to stop Marc from going any closer to the window. “I don’t know if you want to see it, but Eileen’s outside making out with some Italian guy.”

“What are you talking about?” Marc frowned and brushed past Sean to see for himself. He looked down just long enough to identify Eileen and get a good glimpse of the man’s face. Then he retreated from the window as if it reeked of skunk spray.

“You’re right. I really didn’t want to see that.” Marc’s expression told Sean that the recovery his friend had been on the verge of making had just come to a crashing end.

“Come on, man,” Sean said, frustration now filling his usually deadpan voice. “Don’t get depressed. Get angry. Women get depressed about stuff like this and blame themselves. Men get angry and blame other people. That’s what you should be doing. It’s her fault. It’s that fuckin’ paratrooper’s fault. It ain’t your fault.”

“I’m gonna go for a walk in a little while and get some air,” Marc announced. “I’ll wait until they’re gone first, of course.”

“Wanna go to that Irish pub?” Sean suggested eagerly. “I haven’t been there yet.”

“Nah,” Marc waved vaguely. “I figure I should just get some time alone.”

“You can’t be alone at a time like this. Come on. Come out with me and get blasted. You’ll feel better if you’re drunk.”

Marc sighed. “Maybe later. Maybe I’ll meet you there later.”

Sean shook his head slowly. “Okay. If that’s what you want. I’m going to tinker with the keyboards a bit. I’ll head over to ‘The Green Door’ around ten o’clock. We’ll meet there, okay?”

“Maybe,” Marc replied. “Maybe. You go out and have fun. Forget about me for now.”

* * *

Eileen slipped furtively into the hotel, casting her eyes about to see if anyone was about who might have caught her with Vittorio. She hadn’t intended to kiss the swarthy soldier, even though she had been attracted to him from the outset, because she didn’t want to do anything that would make her feel as if she’d done something unfair to Marc. She had dodged several of Vittorio’s advances, including his none-too-subtle invitations to go straight to bed, out of respect for Marc, but her resolve had broken down at the last possible instant in the worst possible location. Vittorio had pleaded for a goodnight kiss, and she could not turn him down, no matter how hard she tried.

Much to her dismay, Eileen discovered Drusilla and Adnan dining together at a table right by the entrance display window. Given that they were both staring at her with odd expressions on their faces, Eileen knew that they had seen everything. “Hello,” Eileen said bashfully.

“Hi,” Drusilla said.

Adnan remained silent.

“That was Vittorio,” Eileen explained.

“Looks like a handsome guy.” The coolness in Drusilla’s tone brought all the nausea that Vittorio had dispelled from Eileen’s stomach return in one great rush. She thinks I’m scum, thought Eileen. She thinks I’ve betrayed Marc. But how could she jump to that conclusion without hearing my side of the story?

Knowing that the longer she lingered in the restaurant the more panicked she’d become, Eileen left the couple behind and proceeded upstairs to her room. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but she knew she’d have to finish things with Marc, break it off cleanly so that she could pursue Vittorio without any feelings of guilt. Vittorio would only be able to receive her for the next two days before having to return to his post, but that would be enough. She had arranged to meet him in two hours before the D’Uomo and she hoped her conversation with Marc would be over before then. Vittorio had promised to write to her when she returned to America, so even though it would be a long distance relationship, and somewhat impractical, she was already planning to fight to keep in contact with him once she returned to America.

Her mind was still reeling from everything that had happened to her when she met Sean on the steps. He was clutching a large plastic tube in his left hand and had a folder of music pinned under his arm. She tried to squeeze past him with a mere, “hello,” but he blocked her with his arm.

“I just want to say, you really are a dumb slut, you know that?”

Eileen’s breath caught in her mouth and her eyes widened. “What?”

“You think that guy’s interested in anything more than just fucking you and dumping you out on the street?” Sean sneered. “There’s no difference between him and all the other horny Italian guys that have been muscling in on you and Drusilla all month. He’s only handsomer, that’s all.”

What, did the whole hotel see me with Vittorio? Are they all going to vilify me and stand in Marc’s corner? Am I going to get crucified for this one little mistake? "You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eileen shot back. “Now let me pass.”

“All Marc wanted to do was make you happy. And he would have. He’s a real gentleman, with a real interest in getting to know who you really are. This other guy doesn’t give a flying fuck about you. He won’t be buying you flowers, I can guarantee it. He ain’t the type. But you’re willing to ditch Marc for this gigolo. You’re a real moron, you know that?”

“You have no right to say those things to me!” Eileen yelled. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

Sean leaned forward, nearly touching his enraged face to Eileen’s. “Did I hurt your feelings? Good. I want to see you look crushed and miserable.”

Eileen grit her teeth together angrily. “You bastard.”

“What? Do I sound mean and heartless? Maybe it’s because I saw the look on Marc’s face when he found out about you and the soldier. It’s kind of hard to feel anything but disgust for you after seeing the consequences of your stupidity firsthand.”

“Consequences?” Hot tears flushed Eileen’s eyes. “He knows already? It just happened!”

“He knows.”

Eileen slumped against the wall, mortified that she couldn’t stop from crying in front of her antagonist.

Sean paused to look with satisfaction at her miserable expression. Then, scowling again, he walked down the rest of the stairs and headed outside to play his music.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, when Eileen knocked on Marc’s bedroom door, he wouldn’t answer. She tried for several minutes to get him to open up, but he was resolute.

Distressed, she left the hotel and took a long evening walk once again, speaking to no one as she went out into the night…

* * *

Downstairs, Drusilla was connected, long-distance, to her boyfriend, Bobby, via the phone in the lobby.

“Hi, Bobby. It’s Drusilla. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided that you’re too possessive and I need some time to find myself.”

Pause.

“No,” Drusilla said, “We’re not breaking up. I just want a hiatus. I just would like to see other people for a little while.”

Pause.

“You see, I’m in Italy and I’m planning on having a fling. Then, when I get home, we can talk about how you need to give me some more ‘me’ time and stop being all possessive.”

Pause.

“An example?” Drusilla asked incredulously. “You wire-tapped my dorm phone to make sure I wasn’t cheating on you.”

Pause.

“Dude! A friggin’ wire tap! What are you, 007 or something? No wait, he isn’t so insecure around women he wire taps their phones. He only wire-taps frickin’ enemies of the state and shit.”

Pause.

“Yeah, I found the wire tap alright. Last week.”

Pause.

“It’s too late to apologize. That wire tap pissed me off.”

Pause.

“It showed a lack of trust. I didn’t cheat on you before, but the wire tap is driving me to it. To make a point.”

Pause.

"No, the point is not that you were right not to trust me and right to put the wire tap."

Pause.

"Well, if you don't know what you did wrong, I can't tell you. I tell you what… take the wire tap off my dorm phone and I’ll be faithful to you from now on.”

Pause.

“After I get back from Italy, that is. I’m having a fling while I’m here. But if I get back and you behave, then you’ll have nothing to fear and you won’t feel like you have to spy on me any more.”

Pause.

“I’m not having this conversation. I’m just letting you know. Tonight and for the rest of the trip, I’m single. Just FYI.”

Pause.

"Well, if you must know, I do have my eye on someone already. I’ve found a nice Italian boy I intend to spend a lot of time making out with.”

Pause.

“No sex. Just a lot of smooching. Scout’s honor.”

Pause.

“Why am I telling you? So you can hire a private detective to follow us to make sure it is only just smooching and take photos so you can look over them with a spy glass to check and see if any penetration is going on.”

Pause.

“Yeah, and fuck you, too, Bob.”

Pause.

Adnan appeared behind Drusilla, "Tell him what you told me before about the 'long lead off of third base.' He'll like that."

“Talk to you later, Bob,” Drusilla said.

Drusilla hung up.

She smiled at Adnan. “I’ve decided to take your advice.”

“I can tell,” Adnan said. “Who’s the lucky Italian guy?”

“Well,” Drusilla smirked. “Technically he’s Italian-American.”

“Ah,” Adnan says. “Swooping in and saving our friend Marc from Eileen, are you?”

“Yep.”

“Something tells me he can use the company tonight,” Adnan said.

“Me, too,” Drusilla said. “I’m going upstairs. See you in the morning.”

The Dimetrodon is BACK!!!

2007-03-25T15:41:00.000-05:00

Look what I found at Weis today!

Look very carefully at this selection of stretchy dinosaurs. What do you see?

That's right! A dimetrodon! The dude with the fin on his back who looks a little blue.

That's my boy.

Of course, someone needs to tell these people that the Dimetrodon isn't a dinosaur.

But I'm not gonna be the one to do it... :)

Yay!

(By the way, in case you are confused, this post is a sequel to another one, Whatever Happened to the Dimetrodon? Thanks for reading...)

Whatever Happened to the Dimetrodon?

2007-03-12T21:35:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite dinosaurs growing up was the Dimetrodon. I had a cool Dimetrodon action figure and I used to make it fight other dinosaur action figures. I also had a Brontosaurus (sadly, renamed the Apatosaurus sometime during the late-80s, early 90s ... a way inferior name), Stegosaurus, Triceratops, and Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was back in the olden days, when these were the only dinosaurs anyone talked about. They were all scaly and colored-in either gray or green in kids science picture books.

It was back in the times of primitive paleontology ... before archaeologists figured out the the T-Rex walked with his tail in the air and didn't drag it on the floor. And it was before the theory that dinosaurs evolved from birds and possibly had feathers.

(Feathers! Goo!)

It was the good old days, when scientific accuracy took a back seat to the coolness factor and the little kid's imagination. So, I didn't care that Pterodactyls (which have now been ... I think ... renamed ... Pteranodons or Terrosaurs ... I think) didn't live at the same time as what-ever-dinosaur-I-wanted-him-to-fight. I just made them fight. In fact, I regularly made dinosaurs from different eras fight one another. Because it was cool.

I also had no real investment in the evolution debate, so I assumed that dinosaurs and cave men co-existed, and that the cave men fought Allosaurs with spears. I thought this, not because I had a beef with Darwin, but because it was a cool concept! AND I saw it happen in movies like One Million Years B.C. and tv shows like Land of the Lost.

To quote my dad. "I don't care what scientists say. I think cave men fought dinosaurs. They had to."

Go dad!

So, with this mindset ingrained in me, I was all ready to blame scientists for the sudden disappearance of the Dimetrodon from all dinosaur-related-merchandise.

It had to be their fault. There was no other reason.

My man was gone. G-O-N-E gone.

This is how it happened.

It took me a while to realize it. But I haven't seen this dude in decades. But it occurs to me... he fell away around the same time the bird theory surfaced and dinosaurs grew feathers.

Let me track the stages of this fellow's disappearance...

First off - NO DIMETRODON IN ANY JURASSIC PARK FILM.

Second - NO DIMETRODON IN WALKING WITH DINOSAURS. (At least, I can't remember one.)

Third - NO DIMETRODON IN MY NEW FANEX FAN OF FAMOUS DINOSAURS.

I bought a cool Fanex guide to dinosaurs on my honeymoon in New Hope, PA, expecting to see info on the Dimetrodon.

What did I get?

Nothing. No Dimetrodon to be found.

What the hell?

So I came up with three theories:

1) It was an oversight.
2) People in charge of marketing dinosaurs were biased against Dimetrodons, so a Dimetrodon advocacy group needed to be formed.
3) Scientists discovered that they got the bones wrong, like they did with the brontosaurus, who had the wrong head for years, and there actually is no such thing as a finned, four-legged dinosaur.

Well, as an academic, I went to the most reliable source for information on this issue ... Google.

And I was close.

Dimetrodons exist.

They just, technically, ain't dinosaurs.

Hence their absence from any and all Jurassic Park films.

I feel better now.

A mystery has been solved.

But, once again, coolness has been sacrificed to scientific accuracy.

I can't make my dimetrodon action figure fight my T-Rex anymore since the Dimetrodon predates any and all dinosaurs.

Blast.

According to Prehistory.com:

"DIMETRODON grandis
Dimetrodon - ancestor of the mammals belonged to the family called Pelycosaurs, which had both mammal and reptile characteristics. Dimetrodon preceded the earliest dinosaurs by more than 40 million years but physically it looked a lot like one. It is often referred to as mammal-like reptile, based on characteristics of the skull and dentition. Dimetrodon was a dominant carnivore, the largest one of the Permian period. It was a predacious reptile that was on the top of the food chain during the early Permian.
This pelycosaur possessed a spectacular sail on its back, supported by long, bony spines, each of which grew out of a separate spinal vertebra. The sail was probably an early experiment in controlling body temperature. It is believed that the sail absorbed the heat of the sun and warmed the blood and body. It warmed up early after sunrise and cooled off more efficiently during the heat of the day. It may have also been used for mating and dominance rituals and making it look much larger than it was to predators. Dimetrodon had a large skull with two types of teeth (sharp canines and shearing teeth). It was probably quite slow because it walked on four side-sprawling legs.
Dimetrodon is one of the more recognized of the early reptiles..

TIME - 280 - 260 MYA, Early Permian period.
RANGE - Russia, E. Europe. USA Texas, Oklahoma.
DIET - Smaller reptiles and other small vertebrates.
SIZE - Up to 6ft (2m) long."

Thanks, Prehistory.com!

But, if you don't trust the Internet to provide accurate scientific information ... check another web site!

According to Enchanted Learning.com:

"Dimetrodon was a sail-backed, meat-eating animal that lived during the Permian Period, roughly 280 million year ago, long before the dinosaurs evolved. It was a so-called mammal-like reptile, an ancestor of the mammals."

Well, my friend, Dimetrodon the Dinosaur. I'll miss you.

Hello, my friend, Dimetrodon the Pelycosaur. Nice to meet you!

Griffin's Best Man Speech

2007-03-12T20:59:00.000-05:00

Griffin gave the following "best man" white wine toast at the Frenchtown Inn (in Frenchtown, New Jersey) during the reception following my wedding to Stacey:

"When Marc asked me to be his best man, I started to think about why we were such good friends.

The answer. We have things in common.

Which is why I have decided to entitle this speech: 'Things Marc and I Have in Common.'

Marc has spent the last six to eight months organizing this event. Booking photographers, finding a hall, finding a church, making travel arrangements for guests coming in from Colorado, Utah, Idaho, and as far away as New Jersey. He planned carefully, thoroughly, and in advance. I had one responsibility. To write this speech. And I waited until last night to do it. I wrote this speech on the back of a Chinese take-out menu at eleven o’clock at night while lying on a cot in my hotel room.

And as I wrote this speech, I thought about everything that Marc and I have in common.

I like poker, beer, and cigars.
Marc likes Trivial Pursuit, pastries, and root beer floats.

I like sports. Watching football, baseball, and college basketball. I enjoy playing golf and tennis. Marc’s idea of exercise is taking the stairs to the second floor.

Marc is content to go to a bar and have one drink. Usually an amaretto sour. For me … well, some of you have heard the stories. Highlights have included lost cars and forty-year-old French women.

Marc likes Doctor Who, Spider-Man, Wonder Woman, and nineteenth-century British female romantic authors. I, on the other hand, am a man.

But seriously, upon closer inspection, those of us who know Marc know there is a lot more to him than his eccentric hobbies and his enormous DVD collection. Marc is honest and honorable. Marc is generous, loyal, and always friendly. Marc is the type of friend that you can always count on no matter what. (Except to change a flat tire. He’s the last person I’d call to help out with that one.)

Most people who are friends with Marc consider him one of the nicest people they know. I’m proud to call Marc one of my best friends.

Stacey, I’m sure you see a lot of the qualities that I just mentioned in Marc, too, and that is why you married him. I think I speak for all of Marc’s friends and family when I say that Marc is lucky to have you. In fact, those of us who knew Marc before you came into his life would have to say he is very lucky. There was not a lot going on before he met you. His love life was like the Mojave Desert during the dry season.

But the dry season is over now and you two make a great couple. I’ve heard a lot of people call you a sweet couple and they’re right.

So I’d like to invite us all to raise our glasses in a roast. I hope your future is happy and healthy."

Great speech! I loved it.

Thanks, man. You're the greatest.

The Wedding of Italian-American Man!

2007-03-12T18:37:00.000-05:00

So, I've gotten married! To Stacey! She's the best!

We wrote our own wedding ceremony and it is the coolest, so I thought I'd post the transcript of the service (which took place at the Fist Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Hunterdon County, in Baptistown, New Jersey) for anyone interested in reading it or in using parts of it for her/his own wedding.

(By the way, Griffin was my best man and David was a groomsman. The reception took place in the Frenchtown Inn of Frenchtown, New Jersey. It has the best food in New Jersey, a really cool and professional and personable manager in Colleen, and is the place where the contemporary classic novel The Day of the Locust was written.)

Anyway, here's our ceremony:

Wedding Ceremony – Stacey & Marc
March 9th, 2007

[Background Music and Processional – Phillip, piano]

Processional Order: Officiant, Groom, and Best Man enter
Seating of the Mothers (Groomsmen)
Groomsmen (outfits pictured here)
Bridesmaids (2, unaccompanied)
Maid of Honor
Ring Bearers (3)
Flower Girl
Bride [Brothers join her at the base of the aisle, escort her, hand
her to the Groom and are seated. Children sit in front pews with parents.]

[Individual candles lit by Rev.]

1. Welcome

Today we come together in a spirit of reverence and love to celebrate a truly joyous occasion. It is one of life’s richest surprises when the accidental meeting of two life paths leads a man and a woman to proceed together along the common path of husband and wife. And it is one of life’s finest experiences when a casual relationship grows into a permanent bond of love. This meeting and this growth bring us here today.

For today we gather to join in marriage Stacey and Marc.

Marriage is a chance to experience all that life has to offer. To give friendship as well as love. To give strength as well as understanding. To share together sunshine and sorrow, laughter and tears. To play, create, achieve, work, live and love – together as partners and friends.

2. Recognition of Family and Friends

From time immemorial, weddings such as this one have been public occasions where family and friends gather to express the joy and approval they feel for the new union.

Let me therefore ask your parents this:
Do you, Ted and Cathy,
and you, Diana,
who have raised and nurtured these two, give your blessings now to them as they enter into this new relationship, and do you aspire in the days and years ahead to give them your deepest love, understanding, and support during both good times and bad? If so, say, “We do.”

[They said "We do," don't worry...]

And let me ask the rest of you gathered here today: Do you who know and care for Stacey and Marc give them your blessings now as they enter into this new relationship, and do you aspire in the days and years ahead to give them your deepest love, understanding, and support during both good times and bad? If so, say, “We do.”

[They did.]

[Check it out, here's my tux...]

3. Reading #1 (read by Maid of Honor, Traci)

I love you, not only for what you are,
But for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not only for what you have made of yourself,
But for what you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out;
I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart
And passing over all the foolish, weak things
That you cannot help dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and weakling in me,
And for laying firm hold on the possibilities of good in me.
I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me
And for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.

I love you because you are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life not a tavern but a temple;
Out of the works of my everyday, not a reproach but a song.
–Roy Croft

4. Solo piano performance: Aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations, performed by Phillip

5. Reading #2 (read by Marc’s cousin Steven)

The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own. – “Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business! – Selina would stare when she heard of it.” – But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
– from Jane Austen’s Emma

6. Reading #3 (read by Caleb, Stacey’s nephew)

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter to the other.
Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there is no more loneliness; for each of you will be companion to the
other.
Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you.
Go now to your dwelling place, to enter into your days together.
And may your days be good and long upon the earth. – Apache Wedding Prayer

7. Reverend’s Message

8. Intention

We are gathered now to share this moment with you, as you affirm your love and your commitment to expand the areas of your lives that you will share with each other.

This is a commitment to share your lives generously, taking care to express the affection and the appreciation, and the mutuality you feel, yet, mindful of the need in each of you for a measure of time that is yours, unshared.

This is a commitment to listen when the other needs to talk, to talk when the other needs to listen – and to share always your honest feelings and differences, not to cause pain, but to avoid the greater pain that a hurt suffered in silence can bring.

This is a commitment to look upon each other’s perfections with joy, and frailties with understanding; and to forgive yourself and each other those weaknesses you cannot love.

This is a commitment to recognize that you have grown and changed from the you of yesterday to the you of today, and to realize that marriage does not forever fix you where you are, but gives you greater opportunity for change and growth than you have yet known.

This is a commitment to support and encourage each other through these changes, which are a part of the continuing process of life.

And, to take neither yourself, nor the other, nor your life together for granted, but to nourish each day, from which the next will flow, as will all the others to follow.

This is a commitment to respond to each other as you would to a trusted friend – with caring, love, and generosity – accepting the freedom and individuality of each, and treasuring the differences that both separate and join you.

And finally, to have faith in yourself and each other, and to keep faith in those things upon which you will build your life together.

Marc and Stacey, do you accept these commitments?
BRIDE and GROOM answer together: “We do.”

9. Vows and Ring Ceremony

[VOWS]
You may now turn and face each other. Repeat after me:

I Marc, take you Stacey, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. I will love and honor you all the days of my life.

I Stacey, take you Marc, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part. I will love and honor you all the days of my life.

[RINGS]
Minister: May I have the rings, please? Repeat after me:

GROOM: In token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love, with this ring I thee wed.

Stacey's Wedding Ring looks like this:

BRIDE: In token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love, with this ring I thee wed.

Marc's Wedding Ring looks like this:
10. Unity Candle Ceremony

Minister: From every human being there rises a light of life. And when two souls are destined for each other and find each other, their streams of light flow together and a single brighter light goes forth from their united being.

[pianist will play short interlude during candle lighting and while the next reader moves into place]

Bride and Groom both light the unity candle.

11. Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi (read by Ted, Marc's father)

Lord, make us instruments
of your peace.
Where there is hatred
let us sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is discord, union;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
Grant that we may not
so much seek
To be consoled as to console;
To be understood
as to understand;
To be loved as to love.

For it is in giving
that we receive;
It is in pardoning
that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are
born to eternal life.

Amen.

12. Pronouncement

Minister: Marc and Stacey, since you have pledged yourselves to each other in the presence of this company, I do now, by the authority vested in me – as a minister and by the state – pronounce you husband and wife.
You may now kiss the bride!

[Recessional]

And then we went on to our honeymoon in Lambertville and New Hope, and stayed at the really wonderful Inn at Stoney Hill!

It ruled.

(By the way, here's a YouTube clip of the very end of the ceremony:)

The Great Music Conversation of 2002 (Via E-mail)

2007-02-17T23:46:00.001-05:00

So I wrote this letter to my friends back in June of 2002. I got some interesting responses…

Hi Folks,

I am exploring musicians that I don't normally listen to in an attempt to improve my lackluster musical taste. If I were to buy one album by each of the following musicians, which one should it be? (Please don't berate me if you hate the person, just leave it blank.)

And is there anyone I'm missing from my list who I might like? (Remember my preference for women singers.)

Pearl Jam
Sex Pistols
Ani DiFranco
Puff Daddy
Flogging Molly
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Beastie Boys
Prince
Eminem
Tupac Shakur (spelling?)
Led Zepplin
Rob Zombie
The Who (I have Tommy)
Dave Matthews (I have Before These Crowded Streets)
Luscious Jackson (I have Electric Honey)
Mazzy Star (I have Among My Swan)
Sonic Youth (I have NYC Ghosts and Flowers)
Grateful Dead (I have the Greatest Hits. I hear American Beauty rules.)

Remember, it is in a good cause ... saving me from Celine Dion.
And sorry about this impersonal, mass e-mail crap. I'm just interested in a wide array of answers.
Thanks in advance for any help you can give me.
You folks rock!

All the best,
Marc

* * *

This e-mail is from Donovan, who reminds me of Matthew Perry

From : Donovan
Sent : Monday, June 3, 2002 1:41 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Pearl Jam-Ten
Sex Pistols- Never Mind the Bollocks
PuffDaddy-No Way Out
Red Hot Chili Peppers- Mothers Milk
Beastie Boys- Paul's Boutique
Prince- Purple Rain
Eminem-The Eminem Show
Tupac Shakur- All eyes on Me
Led Zeppelin- IV
The Who-Who's Next
Dave Mathews- Dave Mathews and Tim Reynolds "Live at
Luther College"
Luscious Jackson- Natural Ingredients
Mazzy Star- So tonight that I may see
Sonic Youth- Dirty
Grateful Dead-Workingman's Dead

Donovan's Recommendations catered to Marc:

Dashboard Confessional- The places you have come to fear the most

Enjoy Marc.
Talk to you soon.

Donovan

* * *

Here's Fergie's response. She looks a lot like Jennifer Garner...

From : Fergie
Sent : Monday, June 3, 2002 1:46 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Marc,

Of course, I'll have to say that it really depends on when you are listening. In my car, I like to listen to rap, hip hop and r&b. At home, I like jazz, and female rockers. I hope you don't settle on just one cd - buy the top three.

I actually like all your choices. My favorite is Ani DiFranco. And of all her albums, "Out of Range" is the best. ("Dilate" is really great, too - but so very angry.)

I also love love love Mazzy Star.

Finally, despite it all - I would say, at this point, right now, if I had to buy one album, I'd buy Eminem's new one. It is critically acclaimed by EVERYONE. (even people who hate rap)....(see if you can get last week's Time magazine article - they had a nice review of the album).

I love music questions. Please tell me what you decide on, and then how you feel about it.

love,

ferg

* * *
This is Becca's response. I'd cast Kristin Scott Thomas as her in a movie...

From : Becca
Sent : Monday, June 3, 2002 5:47 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Hi Marc-
Those look like some good suggestions given you by Donovan. I'm trying to think of more female singers -- a random (and perhaps outdated)list coming to mind includes: Indigo Girls, Tori Amos (Little Earthquakes rules!), Nina Simone (everything), Ery'kah Badu (this is really good--title is something about a gun), Sade (her new one, Lovers Rock, is awesome), Portishead, Bjork, Ani DiFranco (I think her older ones are better, more acoustic-- can't remember the names though, sorry)...

Again, totally random, but maybe helpful!

Talk soon and take care,
Rebecca

* * *

And now for Christina's e-mail. She looks like Nicola Bryant from Doctor Who.

From : Christina Wolverton
Sent : Tuesday, June 4, 2002 12:30 AM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Pearl Jam---Ten, although if you can pick up a bootleg, it's great to hear them live.
Red Hot Chili Peppers----Blood Sugar Sex Magic, of course!
Beastie Boys----The best Beastie's album ever is Paul's Boutique
The Who (I have Tommy)---Check out anything with Baba O'Reilly on it, even if it's a "Best Of..." album
Dave Matthews (I have Before These Crowded Streets)----Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds Live at Luther College. Tim Reynolds is an amazing guitarist. He's not in the Dave Matthews Band, but sometimes Dave Matthews plays with him. This is all acoustic and none of the other guys from the band are in it, it's fantastic.

>Remember, it is in a good cause ... saving me from Celine Dion.
-----Good Christ, man! I can't believe you'd even mention Celine Dion!
>You folks rock!
-----Marc rocks! Hard!

Love,
Christina

* * *
(Here's an e-mail from David. He reminds me a bit of Edward Norton)

From : David
Sent : Tuesday, June 4, 2002 2:49 AM
Subject : Re: best music

Marc -

Since I hate predetermined lists, I'll just make my own for you:

Flogging Molly - you already have "Swagger," I believe so you should get their latest, "Drunken Lullabies." Just great, kick ass energetic, fun as
hell music.

You won't like the Sex Pistols, no matter how hard you try to. The old
school punk band for you is the Clash. Try either "London Calling" or "The Clash." They're 10 times smarter than the pistols, and they actually expand their musical range.

Joe Strummer & the Mescaleroes - the former lead singer of the Clash and his new band. His musical horizons are incredibly broad. He's got everything from rockabilly, to reggae on his latest album "Global A Go-Go."

Beastie Boys - I say try "Check Your Head." It's the first album the Beasties used instruments.

You'd probably like Dashboard Confessional, as Donovan says. But also along those lines are Saves the Day, who are a bit faster and poppier. I think you'd like them a lot. Their latest album is "Stay What You Are."

The Bouncing Souls - one of my most favorite bands, ever. They're punk, but melodic. They sing about cute girls that work at delis, hogging the juke box, and about insecurity. For you, I'd recommend "Hopeless Romantic."

Rocket from the Crypt - C'mon. How can I not recommend RFTC? Look, man. They're the most innovative band around for the past 10 years. They're the best live band around. They love their fans. They fucking rock. Try "Group Sounds."

Jurassic 5 - fuck Puff Daddy. You want rap, you gotta check out people whose roots are grounded in old school hip hop. Jurassic 5 harken back to a time when rap was more about being able to outdo the rival MC as opposed to talking about how rich you are and how many ho's you've smacked. Check out "Quality Control."

Dropkick Murphys - Irish folk mixed with punk. You once heard their cover of "Finnegan's Wake" and started dancing around the room. Check out "Do or Die."

The Slackers - old school ska. The lead singer has a great voice. Try "Wasted Days."

That's all I can think of for now. My advice? Don't try those bands that you've been hearing all your life are so great. Try people who're doing interesting shit now, who you can actually go see. What's the point in listening to music you can't go see performed? However great Flogging Molly's albums are, it's nothing in comparison to their live show.

That's all I can think of for now. Lemme know what you think.

- David

* * *
And now a response from Joe (who kinda looks like Charley Barkley):

From : Joe
Sent : Tuesday, June 4, 2002 3:36 AM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Okay, here we go ... to add to your list:
Enigma
P.O.D.
Kirk Franklin
System of the Down
Bush
Nickleback
India Arie
Alicia Keyes
Dido

and a army of others I'm still trying to think of. I wouldn't listen to Mazzy Starr though. I call it "music to kill yourself by." If I think of more I'll hit you with them.

Joe

* * *

Here's Boris. He looks like Sean William Scott.

From : Boris
Sent : Wednesday, June 5, 2002 7:04 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : RE: best music

Marc,
I was thinking about your changing music tastes and I thought of something the guys may not be too interested in but that I like very much:

Big band music and Dixieland music -- these genres are very similar. In fact, big band music's origins are in Dixieland music, they just spiced up the melodies a little bit. My two suggestions for artists would be Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie for big band music and The Dukes of Dixieland for Dixeland music. Most songs are instrumental and all of these musicians can be found in the Jazz sections of your local music store :) I think that this is an older form of music that never loses its taste. In fact, if you want to, since you're busy this week, maybe next Friday we can go to see my friend Pete play in the city, like I've been suggesting. We'll go with Donovan and Griffin (I don't think Smiley would be interested).

Just thought I'd pass along that info. Hope you are enjoying your new music!!!

Boris

* * *

From: Italian-American Man
To: David

Great list, David.
I'm glad you broke from mine. Gave me a lot of innovative selections.
Kind of like how I prefer Roger Ebert's list of Great Movies. They are so less predictable than the ones on the crappy AFI Top 100 films list. ("Tootsie?" "Close Encounters of the Third Kind?" "Bridge on the River Kwai?" Come on, now!)
But you have me curious.
Why won't I like the Sex Pistols, no matter how hard I try?

- Marc

P.S. - Tried the Clash. Good stuff. I love their cover of "I Fought the Law and the Law Won" and "London Calling."

* * *

From : David
Sent : Thursday, June 6, 2002 3:23 AM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Fw: best music

Marc -

Sorry I didn't write you back yesterday. I was out late at dinner.

Anyway, the reason I don't think you'd like the Sex Pistols is because they're so shocking and vulgar and just try to piss people off which is very un-Marc.

I'm glad you dug the Clash. The singles collection is an excellent smattering of their stuff. I still highly recommend you get "London Calling."

The Irish stuff is an easy bet with you I think. The Dropkicks are a nice mix of punk and Irish music, which you may or may not like. You already know Flogging Molly, so that's a safe bet as well.

Try out the Bouncing Souls. I have a feeling you'll like them.

Dashboard Confessional is a band basically spearheaded by this one guy. All his songs are about girls and how he can't get any to go out with him, and how he's insecure and lonely. Really whiny. Chicks love the guy. I think he's eh. I say Saves the Day would be more to your liking. A bit faster. A bit happier.

* * *
Here's Margie's e-mail. (By the way, I'd pick Winona Ryder to play Margie in a flick.)

From : Margie
To: Italian-American Man

Hi There Marc,

Celine Dion huh? Hmmmm. I don't know about you. I think I remember your first great love was Reba McEntire???

I like David's choices. My sister and brother-in-law have an extensive collection of punk and ska albums. So if you want any thing obscure let me know. I have them make tapes and CD's for me all the time. I do have a Slackers CD around here somewhere, and a handful of Dead Albums.

I wish I could help you, but I'm about three years behind on the music scene. I haven't bought much these last 3 years, as the only thing I've been listening too is Sesame Street and occasionally some classical music. I've only just begun to listen to adult tunes again. My son can now be heard around the house humming a Marley or Beatles song. We use to play Wylcef's CD because he really liked that, but when he started singing "Just because she dance the go-go, don't mean that she's a ho no..." at my parents house, we banned it for another year or two. He does seem to prefer rap and hip-hop.

Let me know how it goes. I definitely need to catch up to the rest of the world.

Margie

* * *

From: Italian-American Man
To: Fergie

Hi Ferg -

Sorry all my friends have been writing back to you as well as to me. Hope that isn't annoying.

I just wanted to drop you a line to tell you that I've listened to the two Ani DiFranco CDs and they are great. Her music is very powerful and emotional. Sometimes it is so effective, I wonder if it is autobiographical. (Like that Letter to a John, in which she talks about what it is like to be a stripper. Very powerful and very true-sounding.) I'm impressed.

And I got a Mazzy Star CD. Loved the first song ... Fade into You ... and wasn't as into the rest of the CD, sadly. But I'll keep going through your list.

- Marc

* * *

From: Fergie
To: Italian-American Man
Subject: Re: music update
Date: Thu, 06 Jun 2002 14:42:24 +0000

Marc,

I didn't mind hearing from your other friends and their music opinions- it was fun to read - I thought your friend's child singing Wyclef to her parents was pretty funny.

I also don't mind you asking questions about artists. I don't know a whole lot of pop culture facts - even on my favorite artists - I listen. I like. I listen more. So, when I know stuff, I'll share.

In terms of whether something is autobiographical or not - I think that people ask that of all artists (visual, writers, poets, etc.) often - but I was surprised that YOU were asking that. (Being a creative writer yourself). I guess I've just always thought that of course your work is autobiographical - but it's also fiction - it's art. It doesn't mean that Ani is or was a stripper - (that song is about a lapdancer) - but that her experiences in life allowed her to relate to the life of the stripper so that she could write a convincing tale (song) that a stripper could probably relate to... or any woman or man who has sold his body (including models) because that was all they thought was worthwhile.

So, I think any artist who's worth anything writes autobiographically, because you have to write what you know - but that doesn't mean it's an Autobiography. You base your fiction (or poem, or song...) on your life experiences, but it's a creative work - the biographical aspects of it may get buried with your creative ideas but your experience is still at the base. (Edgar Allen Poe writes convincingly about a maniac - but that doesn't necessarily mean he was a maniac, right?)

Talk to you soon,

Fergie

* * *

From : Marc
Sent : Thursday, June 6, 2002 10:48 PM
To : captainblackadder@hotmail.com
Subject : Re: music update

Hi Fergie,

What you said about writing creatively is true, of course. That is exactly what I do when I write for a fictional character who has lived a very different life from me - I try to mentally construct what it would be like to be them from the emotional experiences of my life that are, in some way, vaguely similar.

I asked you those questions about the lapdancer song because I know several singers who model most of their most emotionally painful songs exclusively from their own lives. And they have lives that are much more ... interesting ... than mine. (After all, I'm a middle-class suburban dude. Pretty boring all around.) That's why I was wondering if she was from that "school," or if she was taking more of an approach where she is speaking for one of her characters instead of talking about the character in the third person.

I like that approach a lot, actually. It is always more intimate and visceral when a person, like Whitman, says in Leaves of Grass, "I am a slave, this is how I feel," or "I am a hunter" then, "Meet Sam the Slave" or "Here's Samantha the hunter," but it can also cause momentary confusion and it blurs the line between art and reality even further than usual. Which is not a bad thing, of course. Actually, the blur between fiction and reality is the thing I love to ponder the most. I find it fascinating, but few others that I know like to get that abstract with their conversations.

I think the fact that I entertained the idea that the song was a "true story" - a "real" experience of DiFranco's - is a testament to her skill as a writer. She did such a good job that I bought it. But that's because it was a superb song.

(I have a feeling I'm not articulating this well. It is at times like this when I hate e-mail the most. Too shorthanded and fast-paced a medium for this kind of thing, I think.)

Be well,

Marc

* * *

This is Ivan, who looks like Tom Hardy, from Star Trek: Nemesis

From : Ivan
Sent : Friday, June 7, 2002 5:07 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: best music

Marc,

Yes, I'm a Heavy Metal guy. BUT-
No, Rob Zombie, Korn, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park, and
any other band you might see on MTV or hear on the
radio are not my style at all. Unfortunately my stuff
never gets any air time because you have to look for
it and people never want to do anything but skim the
surface. People consider Rob Zombie and that other
stuff metal but what it really is should be called
"rock fusion" because those people take the rock sound
and "fuse" other sounds into it (especially rap, which
I personally would like to wipe off the face of the
earth forever).

Anyway, there are lots of bands in the metal genre
that you might love, Marc, because contrary to popular
belief metal is extremely varied. Manowar, for
example, is definitely metal but does not sound
anything like death metal. Anyway, knowing that you
own a Manowar album I would suggest that you check out
bands like Iron Savior (every album tells a pretty
neat science-fiction story, with the lyrics of the
songs serving as different points of view and the
liner notes adding helpful narration), Hammerfall
(pretty catchy power metal from Sweden), Iron Maiden
(they base lots of songs on movies and World War II),
and Iced Earth (their latest album "Horror Show"
offers a theme of old horror movies, so every song is
about the monster or main character from a different
classic screamer like Dracula or the Creature from the
Black Lagoon). With the exception of Iced Earth I'd
say you'll probably have to go to Vintage Vinyl in NJ
to get most of that, but that's okay because VV has
very low prices and a club plan that allows to save
$10 every time you spend $200 (it helps, believe me).
Anyway, good luck with your new music search and write
again soon, we still should hang out sometime.

Ivan

* * *

From: Italian-American Man
To: Ivan

I just hear Horror Show. The Phantom of the Opera song was my favorite. And the tribute to The Omen. The Jack the Ripper song freaked me out because it idolized a real life serial killer and not a fantasy monster.

And I love Manowar, even though each album only has one or two GREAT songs on it and the rest are ... blah. But the great songs kick ass.

- Marc

* * *

From: Ivan
To: Italian-American Man

Ha.
Figures.
The Jack the Ripper song is my favorite.

- Ivan

* * *

From : Joe
Sent : Sunday, June 9, 2002 8:52 AM
To : captainblackadder@hotmail.com
Subject : Re: a start

As far as women go further recommendations are, Nelly Fertato, Natalie Imbrulia, Selina, Jewell, Missy Elliot, Eve and Shakira. As far as Mazzy Star … my sister bought her CD and when I heard it, it was flat black and the music was blacker.

Joe

* * *

From: Marc Di Paolo
To: Joe
Subject: a start
Sent: Wednesday, June 5, 2002 9:44 PM

Hi Joe,

You have inspired me to order Alicia Keys and Enigma from Amazon. I am excited about Keys since I don't know much about her. I will check on the others in the near future.

Thanks again, and sorry my friends bombarded you with their choices for me (I didn't expect them to do that to you. The “Reply All” option is a powerful one).

Have fun,
Marc

* * *

And now for our friend from the "Men With Guns" post, Sean Cavanaugh. I forgot to tell you last time, he has a "Baldwin"ish look to him. Like this Baldwin ... Billy ... I think...

From : Sean Cavanaugh
Sent : Friday, June 14, 2002 3:48 PM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject :

WHY ARE YOU KNOCKING CELINE? She is wonderful Marc, you know that. I'm disappointed....but for what it's worth, here's my list for you....

Pearl Jam: Obviously the first three albums (VS., TEN, and PEARL JAM), but Vitaology is good too!

Sex Pistols: Forget about it please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ani DiFranco: I can take or leave her personally
Puff Daddy: Marc, I WILL slap you if you're serious. I mean it.
Flogging Molly: "What the fuck?"
Red Hot Chili Peppers: They aren't bad, I really like the song "The Otherside"
Beastie Boys:Greatest hits is good if you MUST try them
Prince: I like the Batman album because it's Batman, but still, Prince is a waste.
Eminem:You're up to two slaps now....
Tupac Shakur (spelling?):Jump to 10 slaps, DO NOT PASS GO, etc.
Led Zepplin:FINALLY, a good band...actually, I'm not that big a fan, but all of their work is solid. Especially the first album.
Rob Zombie: Dammit...there you go again. Marc, do you ACTUALLY think you'd like this? I know I pick on your limited tastes, but this is unacceptable. :)
The Who (I have Tommy): Quadrophenia....great album....Greatest Hits is good too.

Dave Matthews (I have Before These Crowded Streets): They are all good. :)
Luscious Jackson (I have Electric Honey): Don't know them...sorry
Mazzy Star (I have Among My Swan):Not bad, but not my fav either.
Sonic Youth (I have NYC Ghosts and Flowers):Oh God....
Grateful Dead (I have the Greatest Hits. I hear American Beauty rules.): Pick up the Greatest hits, and don't turn into my a hippie please. :)

OK....now for my MARC LIST:

Jewel: Buy anything...she writes good stuff.
Fiona Apple: Another one that I really like. She only has two albums...both worth having.
Lara Fabian: Sings like Celine, but is WAY hotter. Good stuff here brother.
Heather Nova: A little DiFranco like, but hotter, and sweeter. Check out her first album.
Tori Amos: Get past the man-hating, and the music is actually quite good.
Sheryl Crow: She just keeps putting out solid stuff dude. They are all good.
The Corrs: Irish, sexy, great voices....what else needs to be said?
Natalie Merchant: Solid songwriter...she's good.
Diana Krall: Singer/pianist...sexy goddess of jazz...PLEASE buy everything. She's great Marc.
Sarah MCGlachlan: Solid effort every time...worth buying.
Linda Eder: Hot hot hot! Buy her new album "GOLD", and anything else she's done.
Norah Jones: New chick on the block....give her a chance.

U2: I don't know if you like them or not, but if you wanna try, get "The Joshua Tree", "Achtung Baby" and "All You Can't Leave Behind"
John Mellencamp: He's just fun like Jimmy Buffet.
The Farm Dogs: Bernie Taupin's band. If you can track down this CD, buy it immediately. It's fantastic.
Collective Soul: I really like this band. "Dosage" and "Blender" are pretty good along with the "Hits" disc.
Savatage: Hard rock/metal but they are pretty good. Try "Dead Witner Dead".
Queensryche: Awesome heavy metal...Go and buy "Operation Mindcrime". It has some pretty grim shit in it, but certainly no worse than what you're trying in that list you sent out. Musically, it's very good album. Also try "Empire" has the song "Silent Lucidity".
James: Go buy the album "Laid" you'll remember the songs from college.

Well, that's it off the top of my head for "new Marc stuff". I would much rather tell you this over the phone, so CALL ME SOON.

Later buddy.

Sean

* * *

From : Ivan
Sent : Tuesday, July 2, 2002 3:34 AM
To : Italian-American Man
Subject : Re: Iced Earth

Marc,

Seriously, I'm very happy that you liked Horror Show, and it is
important to note that if you like that album you will
like lots of other bands I like. Iced Earth, by the
way, has an entire album about Spawn called "The Dark
Side," in case you're interested (I'm not a Spawn fan
myself but I thought it was worth mentioning).

Next, pick up Iron Savior's "Unification," it's got
great songs and a great story. Talk to you next time,
and I hope all is well on your end.

Ivan

* * *

From: Griffin
To: Italian-American Man

I love the Defecaters, man. They are pure art. In the middle of their sets during live concerts, they crap all over the stage. And then they eat it.

They're not sellouts like other bands, man.

They don't have merchandise. They don't have a web page. They don't get radio play. In fact, the only way you can get to see them live is if you crap in the alley outside their venue and smear the poo all over your face and show it to the bouncer. Then they let you in.

I'll take you to see them sometime. If you are willing to play with your own fecal matter to see them.

- Griffin

* * *

From: Italian-American Man
To: Griffin

So I guess you haven't been enjoying these e-mails, then?

- Marc

* * *

From: Griffin
To: Italian-American Man

Tube socks.

- Griffin

P.S. - Tell your friends from grad school to just hit "Reply" and not "Reply all" when they e-mail. They're doctoral students, right? Shouldn't be beyond them, right?
P.P.S. - Put some crab meat in your buttpussy.

* * *

And, after buying most all of these CDs and listening to them all, these were the singers I decided I liked the best:

Jethro Tull
Leonard Cohen
Dido
Sarah McLachlan (spelling?)
Willie Nelson
Johnny Cash
John Denver
Dolly Parton
Indigo Girls
Tori Amos
India Arie
Alicia Keys
Natalie Merchant
Ani DiFranco
Iced Earth
The Clash
Dave Matthews

You’ll notice that most of these were not mentioned at all. I decided to look into them because a) I remembered seeing them on the Muppet Show back when I was very, very small, b) I heard about them on NPR, c) I bumped into them on Internet radio, d) somebody else suggested them.

I’m pleased with my newly expanded musical taste, but Stacey and my brother are upset I decided to like Leonard Cohen. Guess they don’t think “Everybody Knows” is as cool as I do. Oh, well.

The Leprechauns in the Record Player

2007-02-12T09:35:00.000-05:00

Staten Island, New York
Once Upon a Time…
(circa 1980)

Note: I’m about five-years-old when this story takes place.

I was not sure if leprechauns enjoyed the simple pleasures of cookies and milk, but it was the only meal I knew how to make without my mother’s help, so it would have to do.

With two chubby hands, I laid a plate of thirty chocolate chip cookies on the carpeted floor in front of the record player, hoping that there was enough food to satisfy however many leprechauns were busy at work inside the machine. I then scampered quickly back into the kitchen, poured milk into seven paper cups – managing not to spill too much of the beverage onto the breakfast table – and then made several trips back and forth between the kitchen and living room, each time gingerly placing a paper cup before the record player and crossing my fingers that every single cup would remain standing on the soft, plush carpet.

Once again, I had some small anxiety that I should be providing more milk, and worried that the cups would be too big for leprechaun hands, but I was doing the best I could with the information I had. When my paternal grandfather, Carmine, had explained to me that morning that record players were operated by hordes of little men who lived inside the machine, and whose sole purpose in life appeared to be to stand ready for whenever I (or my mom) felt the urge to listen to an Elvis Presley vinyl record, grandpa had been very earnest in his claim but very sketchy in detail.

The conversation had begun innocently enough. It had been early that afternoon and I had been dancing around the room blasting “Maybe I know” by Lesley Gore when grandpa (a gaunt fellow in white slacks and a white, button-down shirt who resembled horror film star Peter Cushing), came in and politely asked me to lower the volume. The music softened and grandpa settled himself into the plush love seat across from the record player, casually scanning the rows of books jammed together on the shelves nailed up on the wall next to him. I followed his gaze and read off some myself – The Films of Alfred Hitchcock, Jane Eyre, The Time-Life Book of Sharks. These books, like most of the books in our household, were mainly works of literature, history, and zoology, with a liberal smattering of books on the movies – genre criticism, Hollywood tell-alls, surveys of the careers of various movie stars and directors. I had never read any of these books, but my parents liked them so much that I knew some day I would. In the meantime, I could enjoy the glossy color pictures in them whenever I flipped through them.

“So, Marc,” Carmine began in a faraway tone as his eyes glided over the tiles.

“Yes?” I was always taught to say “yes” and not “yeah.”

“You like listening to old music?”

It took me a second to understand the question. “You mean mom’s rock albums?”

“That’s right. ‘Rock Around the Clock’ and all that stuff.” Carmine returned his eyes to my round face. I had no way of knowing it, but my thick, curly hair was as out-of-control as ever, standing up in large clumps at the back of my head.

“It’s not old,” I declared, still standing awkwardly in front of the record player, my eyes cast down on the floor. “Mozart is old. This is new.”

Carmine smiled thinly. “Yeah, well. Mozart is really old, but this stuff you’re listening to is still old. Why don’t you listen to new music, like Blondie or Springsteen, or somebody like that?”

Finally leaving my post next to the record player, I sat beside my grandfather. “Who are they?”

Carmine chuckled. “Never mind.”

I frowned and a silence came between them.

“Your parents will be home from the Poconos tomorrow,” Carmine ventured.

I nodded, my eyes returning to the record player.

“Got something on your mind?”

I shifted in my seat and looked down at my feet, which were invariably dressed in white tennis socks. “Yes.”

“Is it a secret?”

“I want to know how record players work.”

“Oh?”

“You know…why does the record start spinning when you put the needle on the record? And why does it stop spinning when you lift it? And how do you get all those voices on the record? And why do records all have different music on them when they all look the same?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on there, Hiawatha! One question at a time.”

“Do you know?”

Carmine mulled over the question. “Well, I don’t know the details, but there is one thing I do know.”

And that’s when Carmine explained that there were leprechauns in the record player. According to Carmine, they were the ones who made the record spin, who made the lights flash under the sign that read Stereo Control Amplifier, and who made the sound come out of the speakers. Naturally, I had asked a stream of questions. How many were there? How big were they? What did they eat? Did they get any days off? Did they ever get to leave the record player? Do other appliances have leprechauns in them, like televisions or electric can openers? And if leprechauns exist, does that mean fairies exist, too?

With each question I hurled at Carmine, the man’s face grew ever more amazed and amused. He offered an array of explanations ranging from somewhat vague to completely vague, consistently annoying me with his lack of scientific data. Thanks to my dad, I knew a lot about the animal kingdom, especially about sharks, and everything I knew was very scientific. I knew that sharks could perceive prey by the electrical field generated by its beating heart or by the vibrations that a fish or human makes in the water while it swims. And I knew a lot about the different species of sharks, too. (My particular favorite was the funny-looking Hammerhead shark.) What I wanted was similarly detailed information about leprechauns’ biology, psychology, and social mores, especially since I had heard somewhere that they didn’t exist and I was somewhat dubious about their presence in the record player. But Carmine did insist.

And so, that evening, I found myself sneaking downstairs past my bedtime, after I suspected that grandpa had went to sleep, and provided the leprechauns with a little after-dinner snack gleaned from a store-bought bag of cookies and a half-empty carton of milk purchased yesterday from the deli up the block. I kept the lights off, not wanting to wake Carmine or to scare the little green men away, and hid behind the sofa with an unlit flashlight and a camera, awaiting the arrival of the miniature workers. I rested on my belly, rolling the flashlight over in my hands as I looked at the camera.

The camera was a simple point-and-shoot variety that I had never touched before in my life, but it looked like the world’s easiest thing to use. I was eager to obtain photographic proof of the leprechauns because I suspected that the other kids on the block would not believe my tall tales if I could not produce evidence of my encounter with the fantastic. Besides, even at that age, I was discovering a love of photographs and was excited at the prospect of taking my first snapshot.
And so, I waited for the little men to emerge from their wooden and plastic home. And I waited. I yawned. The grandfather clock chimed midnight and I counted the gongs, wondering when they ceased how I had only managed to count eleven. I decided that I must have missed a gong somehow. “Where are these darn guys?” I whispered to myself.

I felt foolish laying there in the dark, clutching a camera and flashlight, staring through the gloom at a plate of cookies and seven Dixie cups. By one in the morning, I was beginning to think I had been conned. But I waited a little longer, remembering the fairy tale of The Elves and The Shoemaker. Of course, in the fairy tale, the elves didn’t come out until after the humans were asleep, so perhaps this was part of it. I knew that I would miss them if I went to sleep, but if I awoke to find the cookies eaten and the milk drunk then I would accept them as proof enough of the leprechauns’ existence. I would feel a little disappointed at missing a personal encounter with the little people but, as mom would say, “What can you do?” So I lowered her head to the carpet and went to sleep.

The living room light snapped on at four-thirty in the morning, waking me. I lifted my head groggily from the floor, trying to see through the sleep mucus that clouded my eyes. There was a red blotch on my face where the carpet had scratched against my skin. A bemused Carmine stood over me, looking back and forth between the little girl and the after-dinner snack in front of the record player, which remained untouched. “And what are you up to, little man?” Carmine asked. “I woke up to go to the bathroom, I check on you, and you aren’t in bed.”

“I wanted to feed the leprechauns,” I muttered. “I wanted to thank them for working so hard.”

Carmine sighed and picked me up off the floor by the elbow. He let go of me when he felt that I had found my footing and was standing under my own, half-asleep power. “There aren’t any leprechauns in the record player. I was just kidding with you. You’re a smart kid. I thought you knew that.”

I looked back at the record player, half expecting to see a legion of emerald gentlemen come crawling out from every nook and cranny in the music-maker, shouting in unison, “We exist! We exist! Don’t say that! We exist!”

Carmine rubbed my head affectionately. “Come on. You didn’t really believe all that, did you?”

“You told me that they used to work sixty-hour weeks but now they only work forty because they have a union.”

“Yeah, I did. I made that up.”

“And you said that they were in all Japanese record players.”

“They aren’t in any record players.”

I stared up at my grandfather. “They aren’t in any record player?”

“They aren’t anywhere. Leprechauns don’t exist.”

“Leprechauns don’t exist?”

“No.”

“Leprechauns don’t exist.”

“That’s what I said. Now you really need to go to bed.”

“What about all that other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

“You know. The other stuff you don’t see. The Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, angels, souls, ghosts. All that stuff.”

Carmine paused. “Yeah, well, all that stuff is made up, too.” Carmine renewed his attempt to urge me towards the stairs and my upstairs bedroom, but I was too lost in thought to notice.

“So you lied to me when you made all that stuff up,” I said suddenly.

Carmine looked mad for a moment, but then stopped himself from speaking. A moment later, he said, “I wouldn’t call it a lie, Marc. It was just a nice story to entertain you. All these things are nice stories for kids to cheer them up. But I guess you’re too old for them now. You’ve figured out that they’re just stories, so I guess it would be wrong of me and your parents to keep telling them to you. You’re just too sharp for the rest of us.”

I looked extremely dubious.

“Are you okay there, pal?”

I scowled.

“Are we still friends?”

I broke away from my grandfather, briskly scooped up the plate of cookies in my right hand and one of the cups of milk in my left. “I guess I’ll eat these myself, then.”

“Can I have one before we go back to sleep?” Carmine asked.

“No. You’re a jerk. I’m not giving you any cookies.”

Psychological Profiling of Me and ... YOU?

2007-01-30T19:34:00.000-05:00

In honor of my new wife, a Classical music maven and a professional, freelance, clarinetist, I decided to include something only vaguely related to the world of Classical music. I've taken several online personality tests to determine which Classical musicians I am most like. This is what I have discovered:

Which Classical Music Composer Does the Internet say I am Most Like?
Felix Mendelsohn
This master of delightful chamber music and ballet was also the rediscoverer of the genius of Bach.

If I were a Dead Russian Composer, I would be Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.

Considered the leader of the 19th Century Composer group "The Mighty Handful," I am indeed the teacher among them. My orchestration skills are superbly colorful, and are explained in my book on the topic, but works like "Scheherezade" explain my mastery better.

Who would you be? Dead Russian Composer Personality Test

If I were a Dead German Composer I would be Franz Schubert.

Franz Schubert is, without a doubt, the leader of the lieder. He composed over 600 songs in his lifetime, though he only lived into his early thirties. He did a good deal of chamber music and symphonic writing as well, though a good portion of this is incomplete. Schubert was rather secretive in his lifestyle and about his compositional processes; he was shy to show anything he didn't himself enjoy. Fortunately, he along with everyone else found his own melodies to be beautiful.

A few key works: Die Winterreise, The Trout Quintet, Unfinished Symphony (#8), Death and the Maiden
Take the Dead German Composer Test!

And now, a test for you folks. If you were a fruit, which would you be?

Don't ask questions....just do it ....Pick a fruit... Which fruit will you pick if you were handed these:

1. Orange

2. Apple

3. Banana

4. Coconut

5. Pineapple

6. Papaya

7. Mango

8. Cherry

9. Black Grapes

10. Peach

11. Custard Apple

12. Pear

What is your pick???

(Pick before you scroll down .... Do Not CHEAT!!!)

ORANGE - If orange is your favorite fruit, it speaks of a person who has enduring patience and willpower. You like to do things slowly, but very thoroughly and are completely undaunted by hard work. You tend to be shy, but are reliable and trustworthy friend. You have an aesthetic bent of mind. You select your partner with care and you love with all your heart, and not just a fling. You avoid conflict at all costs.

APPLE - If apple is your favorite fruit, you are an extravagant, impulsive and outspoken person, often with a bit of a temper. While you may not be the best organizer yourself, you make a good team leader and are good at taking things forward. You can take quick action in most situations. You enjoy travel immensely. You ooze with charm when you are with your partner. You have an enthusiasm for life, unmatched by most.

BANANA - You are a softy Loving, gentle, warm and sympathetic by nature is the banana lover. You often lack in self-confidence and are quite timid by nature. People often take advantage of your sweet temper and sheer vulnerability to a situation. You adore your partner in every which way, both for their mental and physical beauty! Because of the way you are, your relationship is always very much in harmony!

COCONUT - The coconut lover is a serious, very thoughtful and contemplative person. Though you enjoy socializing, you are particular about the company you keep. You tend to be stubborn but not necessarily foolhardy. Shrewd, quick-witted and alert, you ensure that you are right on top of any given scenario, especially at work. You need a partner with brains, and while passion is important it certainly isn't everything for you.

PINEAPPLE - You are quick to decide and even quicker to act. You are brave in asking career changes if that is what is to your advantage. You have exceptional organizing abilities and are undaunted by the size of the task at hand. You tend to be self reliant, sincere and honest in your dealings with others. Though you are not given to making friends very quickly, but once you do, it is for life. You rarely, if ever, make romantic overtures. Your partner is often impressed with your sterling qualities but disappointed in your ability to show affection.

PAPAYA - You are truly fearless and take much that happens in life in your stride. You give considerable thought to things you do. You have a sense of humor that, along with your generous nature, keeps you in most people's good books. You are a go-getter in your professional life, and have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. You enjoy meeting new people and seeing new sights whenever you can. Your sense of humor is what attracts members of the opposite sex to you more than anything else. It is simply charming!

MANGO - A mango lover is a personality to beckoned with; quite often, you are a person who has quite fixed ideas, and influencing you is not an easy task. You tend to be an extremist with strong likes and dislikes, and at times even like to control a situation. You enjoy getting involved in something that presents mental challenge. Strong as you may be, you are like a kitten when you are with your partner. You accommodate the love of your life, and make up for all the strong will elsewhere!

CHERRY - If cherry is your favorite fruit, life isn't always as sweet for you. You often face ups and downs, particularly professionally, and find that you make small sums of $$$, instead of a lump sum. You have a fertile imagination and are often involved in creative pursuits. You are a very sincere and loyal partner, but find that expressing your feelings is not very easy. Your home is your haven, and you love nothing more than being surrounded by close family and your beloved partner.

BLACK GRAPES - You are a polite person in general, but do have quick flare-ups of temper that cool down just as quickly. You enjoy beauty in all forms, including beautiful people. You are very popular because of your warm, gregarious nature. You have a zest for life; you enjoy everything you do, right from the way you dress, to your style and your day-to-day life. Your partner must share your zeal and zing for life to enjoy all you have to offer!

PEACH - Like a peach, you enjoy the juice of life & all its lush ripeness! You are the friendly sort, and are quite frank and outspoken, which adds to your charm. You are quick to forgive and forget; and value your friendships highly. You have an independent and ambitious streak in you that make you a real go-getter. You are the ideal lover, fiery and passionate but sincere and faithful in love. You don't, however, like to display all that passion in public.

CUSTARD APPLE - You are a modest and conservative person who can be quite sensitive at times. You ten d to be thoughtful and contemplative, and therefore are rarely rash in doing things. You are quite ambitious and are good at anything that requires much detailing or working with numbers. You are quick at finding fault with others. While looking for a partner, you value a person's intellect far above their looks or good old passion. You are quite shy and not very comfortable demonstrating affection.

PEAR - If you put your mind to something you can do it successfully, but by and large you tend to be fickle and have trouble completing a task with the enthusiasm you started it with. You need to know the results of your efforts almost immediately. You enjoy mental stimulation and love to get into a good discussion! You tend to be a restless and high-strung person, and are easily excited Being happy doesn't mean everything's perfect! It means you've decided to see beyond the imperfections!

I had trouble picking between cherry, mango, pineapple, and coconut. All of the descriptions fit me to one degree or another, but my first instinct was cherry and that seems to fit me best anyway.

UPDATE - One day later...

Inspired by my earlier adventures taking on-line personality tests to determine which Classical music composer I am most like, I decided to take a test to see which superhero I am most like. Now, I was actually testing the test in this case, because I already know which superhero I am most like. I've been reading comic books since 1984, so I know full well which superhero I am most like. Since the test got me right, it seems to be a reliable one, so it may well get you right, too...

My results:
I am Spider-Man

95% Spider-Man, 65% Green Lantern, 65% Superman, 58% Iron Man, 28% Wonder Woman
You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

And which super villain am I?

Your results:
You are The Joker
The Clown Prince of Crime. You are a brilliant mastermind but are criminally insane. You love to joke around while accomplishing the task at hand.

Joker = 63%
Riddler 58%
Dr. Doom = 52%
Magneto = 51%
Apocalypse = 50%
Lex Luthor = 47%
Mr. Freeze = 46%
Mystique = 41%
Poison Ivy = 41%
Venom = 31%
Dark Phoenix = 28%
Green Goblin = 25%

Click here to take the "Which Super Villain are you?" quiz...

Update ... another day later...

Following up on the last couple of posts, I've continued to take on-line personality tests, just for the fun of it.

So, I took the Ulla Zhang Personality test.

My results were... here.

After I took this test, I took one still more involved and interesting. It was a Jung Typology Test from a web page called Humanetrics. It was fun. I recommend it.

First off, I'll give you a description of the test's methodology and then I'll clue you in on how I was evaluated.

"
HUMANMETRICS
Jung Typology Test

According to Carl Jung's typology all people can be classified using the following three criteria:

* Extraversion - Introversion
* Sensing - Intuition
* Thinking - Feeling

Isabel Briggs-Myers added fourth criterion:

* Judging - Perceiving

The first criterion, Extraversion - Introversion defines the source and direction of energy expression for a person. The extravert has a source and direction of energy expression mainly in the external world while the introvert has a source of energy mainly in the internal world.

The second criterion, Sensing - Intuition defines the method of information perception by a person. Sensing means that a person believes mainly information he or she receives directly from the external world. Intuition means that a person believes mainly information he or she receives from the internal or imaginative world.

The third criterion, Thinking - Feeling defines how the person processes information. Thinking means that a person makes a decision mainly through logic. Feeling means that, as a rule, he or she makes a decision based on emotion.

The fourth criterion, Judging - Perceiving defines how a person implements the information he or she has processed. Judging means that a person organizes all his life events and acts strictly according to his plans. Perceiving means that he or she is inclined to improvise and seek alternatives.

The different combinations of the criteria determine a type. There may be sixteen types. Every type has a name (or formula) according to the combination of criteria. For example:

ISTJ
Introvert Sensing Thinking Judging or
ENFP
Extravert Intuitive Feeling Perceiving

By taking the Jung Typology Test, you will discover your type formula along with a quantitative measure of each of the 4 criteria (strengths of the preferences). Once formula and strengths of preferences are obtained, you can:
- Learn about your personality type by reading your type description. This may help you identify your life style in general as well as your style with respect to specific areas such as business, love, education, communications, conflicts"

Here are my results... (Consider all the rest of this a long quotation from the web site linked above.)

Your Type is
INFJ
Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging
Strength of the preferences %
22 38 50 22

Qualitative analysis of your type formula

You are:

* slightly expressed introvert
* moderately expressed intuitive personality
* moderately expressed feeling personality
* slightly expressed judging personality

The Portrait of the Counselor Idealist (iNFj)

RATIONAL
ARTISAN

IDEALIST
GUARDIAN
Copyrighted © 1996-2007 Prometheus Nemesis Book Company

Apparently this makes me like “Mohandas Gandhi, Jane Goodall, Sidney Poitier, Emily Bronte, Sir Alec Guinness, Carl Jung, … Eleanor Roosevelt”

“The Counselor Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in reaching their goals, and enterprising and attentive in their interpersonal roles. Counselors focus on human potentials, think in terms of ethical values, and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (little more than 2 percent) is regrettable, since Counselors have an unusually strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their companions. Although Counsleors tend to be private, sensitive people, and are not generally visible leaders, they nevertheless work quite intensely with those close to them, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes with their families, friends, and colleagues. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people.

“Counselors can be hard to get to know. They have an unusually rich inner life, but they are reserved and tend not to share their reactions except with those they trust. With their loved ones, certainly, Counselors are not reluctant to express their feelings, their face lighting up with the positive emotions, but darkening like a thunderhead with the negative. Indeed, because of their strong ability to take into themselves the feelings of others, Counselors can be hurt rather easily by those around them, which, perhaps, is one reason why they tend to be private people, mutely withdrawing from human contact. At the same time, friends who have known a Counselor for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that they are inconsistent; Counselors value their integrity a great deal, but they have intricately woven, mysterious personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.

“Counselors have strong empathic abilities and can become aware of another's emotions or intentions -- good or evil -- even before that person is conscious of them. This "mind-reading" can take the form of feeling the hidden distress or illnesses of others to an extent which is difficult for other types to comprehend. Even Counselors can seldom tell how they came to penetrate others' feelings so keenly. Furthermore, the Counselor is most likely of all the types to demonstrate an ability to understand psychic phenomena and to have visions of human events, past, present, or future. What is known as ESP may well be exceptional intuitive ability-in both its forms, projection and introjection. Such supernormal intuition is found frequently in the Counselor, and can extend to people, things, and often events, taking the form of visions, episodes of foreknowledge, premonitions, auditory and visual images of things to come, as well as uncanny communications with certain individuals at a distance.

Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging, and article by Joe Butt.

IDEALIST NFs, being ABSTRACT in communicating and COOPERATIVE in implementing goals, can become highly skilled in DIPLOMATIC INTEGRATION. Thus their most practiced and developed intelligent operations are usually teaching and counseling (NFJ mentoring), or conferring and tutoring (NFP advocating). And they would if they could be sages in one of these forms of social development. The Idealist temperament have an instinct for interpersonal integration, learn ethics with ever increasing zeal, sometimes become diplomatic leaders, and often speak interpretively and metaphorically of the abstract world of their imagination.

They are proud of themselves in the degree they are empathic in action, respect themselves in the degree they are benevolent, and feel confident of themselves in the degree they are authentic. Idealist types search for their unique identity, hunger for deep and meaningful relationships, wish for a little romance each day, trust their intuitive feelings implicitly, aspire for profundity. This is the "Identity Seeking Personality" -- credulous about the future, mystical about the past, and their preferred time and place are the future and the pathway. Educationally they go for the humanities, avocationally for ethics, and vocationally for personnel work.

Social relationships: In their family interactions they strive for mutuality, provide spiritual intimacy for the mates, opportunity for fantasy for their children, and for themselves continuous self-renewal. Idealists do not abound, being as few as 8% and nor more than 10% of the population.

WELL KNOWN PERSONALITIES
IDEALISTS: "NF" (APOLLONIAN) (Choleric)
Arts & Entertainment/Sports/Journalism/Literature

* Jane Fonda(Counselor)
* Shirley MacLaine
* Pearl S. Buck
* Charlotte Bronte(Champion)
* Emily Bronte(Healer)
* Emily Dickenson(Counselor)
* Herman Hesse
* Albert Camus
* James Joyce
* Leo Tolstoy(Champion)
* Ann Morrow Lindbergh(Healer)
* Oliver Stone(Champion)
* Erica Jong(Champion)

Politics/Government/Military

* Mohandas Gandhi (Counselor)
* Eleanor Roosevelt(Counselor)
* Leon Trotsky (Champion)
* Vladimir Lenin (Teacher)
* Mikhail Gorbachev (Teacher)
* Thomas Paine (Champion)
* Alexander Hamilton (Champion)
* Molly Brown "The Unsinkable" (Champion)
* Princess Diana (Healer)

Business/Industry/Finance
Science/Education/Humanities/Philosophy/Religion

* Lord Alfred Russel Wallace
* Siddhartha [Buddha]
* Albert Schweitzer(Healer)
* Carl Rogers(Champion)
* Abraham Maslow
* Isabel Myers (Healer)
* Carl Jung (Counselor)
* Soren Kierkegaard
· Plato

Mary Thacker Interviews Marc DiPaolo

2007-01-30T03:00:00.000-05:00

An Interview with Marc DiPaolo
By Mary Thacker (mary.thacker@hotmail.com)

I had been in his office a few times before, so to be seated across the room from Marc DiPaolo, flanked by Spider-Man and Indiana Jones posters on opposing walls, was a familiar scene. This is someone I have questions for, I thought to myself as I balanced my notepad on my leg and wandered down into my bag for the tape recorder. I found it and placed it on the desk, shifting my eyes up to pass over a black t-shirt with yellow chicks that read “Chillin’ With My Peeps.” I immediately laughed and said, “I like your shirt.” Appropriately, it was charmingly paired with a blazer and sneakers, which I think is a trend right now amongst Hollywood, but I doubt he knew
that. It’s probably better he didn’t.

A week later I was sitting at a table with DiPaolo’s boss, the head of the department of English and Communications, asking her what it was about DiPaolo that got him the job as Assistant Professor in her department. She cited his many achievements, including his experience as a reporter, which aided in making him an attractive candidate for being what she wanted from teachers in the department: excellent teaching skills, well read literary background, and experience in areas of communications. “He also brings interests and experience in film, media, and popular culture…in particular super heroes.”

Dr. DiPaolo earned his doctorate in English in 2004, his M.A. in English in 1999, and his B.A. in English in 1997. He specializes in Medieval studies, 18th Century British literature, Gothic fiction, journalism, and Italian literature. If there were to be an area of study for comic books and fantasy writing, Dr. DiPaolo would undoubtedly be the first in line to earn a Ph.D. in that too.

Before teaching, DiPaolo honed his writing skills as a staff news reporter and also freelanced for New Jersey TechNews and other publications.

Since adolescence, he has been writing novels, short stories, and essays for pleasure and entertainment as well as academia. It seemed natural for an aspiring journalist to interview someone who was at one time a reporter himself, but that wasn’t the only reason I had chosen DiPaolo. Fall 2006 marks my third semester of taking classes from him, and I had always enjoyed his stories, reporter-related or not, and had questions. The following is classically DiPaolo-wordy, light-hearted, shrewdly entertaining, and euphorically honest. Enjoy.

What made you want to be a reporter?

I didn’t know that I wanted to be one. I knew that I liked to write, and I didn’t know what I could do with that talent. When I was growing up, everyone knew exactly what they wanted to do. In 5th grade everyone in the class wanted to be a dentist or a brain surgeon and I said, “Well I like to write and draw” and I didn’t know what I wanted to do with those hobbies. Mom was very practical, and she said, “Well, I know you’re writing novels and short stories and you have no agent, so you better become a reporter.” And I was like, “I don’t want to be a reporter. They’re all mean and in the movies they’re all bad guys. I have to ask people why they cheat on their wives and why they stole money and I don’t want to do that.” But then I became one and I was very glad I did because I was very lazy, and the deadlines made me work hard and refined my writing. It made me less shy, even though I’m still pretty shy, so I am very glad I became a reporter even though I didn’t want to at first.

Do you think you fit in with the stereotypical reporter types who are more aggressive?

I found out that even the aggressive ones are secretly shy. I had said, “I’m shy, I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a reporter.” And all the reporters said, “We’re shy too. We don’t like that people seem to hate us.” So I found I had all my kind of stereotypical notions tested when I became one. You know the idea that all the reporters in the same newsroom have the same politics? I don’t think that’s true.

What was it that drew you to teaching then?

When I was working as a reporter I was taking Sunday Masters degree classes in English, and I realized I was having more fun in the classroom than I was on the reporter beat. Even though I liked reporting – it was fun seeing my name in the newspaper and I felt like I was finally finding out how society worked – I just really liked being in the classroom because I felt like we were talking about real issues, about what motivates people, and what are the problems in society, and how we might all get along with each other. Meanwhile, I felt like the articles I wrote were just kind of addressing symptoms and not the core of the issues. I also felt like, as a teacher, I could sense what my words were doing. If I could see students in the classroom, and I could have a real sense of if I was helping or hurting people. But, as a reporter, if I just blow a story out there I have no idea what effect it has, if I’m doing good or bad. So I like the smaller scale and the deeper discussions involved in teaching.

Do you intend on remaining a teacher or do you have other career plans?

I like being a teacher; I think I’d like to stay one. I guess everyone who works in English or communications wants to have that great best seller. All the journalists want to be the next Woodward and Bernstein, and all the English teachers want to be the next Updike or Atwood. In my spare time I try to write autobiographical fiction or essays and see what happens. But I enjoy teaching.

What is your favorite thing about teaching?

I like to get to know students. There are always the students who are forced to take the class because it’s a part of their core graduation requirements and they don’t want to be there. But every semester there are at least four or five students who really seem to be responding. More than that probably respond, but there are four or five who make it clear that you’re teaching them something, and they’re teaching you something. These are the students I get to know well, and I love that. That kind of connection is especially important to me since a lot of my interests are introverted: reading and writing and other in-the-house kind of stuff. The social aspects of being a journalism teacher are really important to me, especially getting me out of my shell. I try to learn things from my students whenever I can. What have you been doing lately? What’s the newest thing that I’m not up on because I’m out of it and I don’t have cable? Then they're nice enough to tell me about how much they like Saw or Dane Cook and I check out Saw and Dane Cook and feel really guilty when I don't like them that much. But I try...

It’s interesting that you’re so involved and passionate about fiction writing, yet made a career in something very realistic like journalism. Is there a connection between the two?

Definitely. Fiction is still a way of trying to make true observations about the world, even if the story itself isn’t technically true. Even if the story has dragons, or some obvious otherworldly element, the writer is still trying to reveal a personal insight or a truth about life and people and dreams.

In general, I’m not sure what is harder, writing a gritty, realistic story, or writing a fantastic, fictional story. I will admit, I used to be afraid of writing non-fiction, and the reporter job gave me the courage to write more realistic stories. When I was a kid I didn’t feel like I knew people well enough to write realistic stories, so I hid behind fantasy stories. If I didn’t understand something from the adult world - like the tax code or prejudice or something – I’d set my story in a fantasy world without those confusing elements – a world without taxes or racial tensions – and that solved that. Now that I know more about people and the real world, I feel I can write about these issues. But I haven’t outgrown fantasy. I like watching movies like Spider-Man, which are escapist, and movies like Junebug, which are realistic dramas. I also like writing horror stories and human dramas.

Actually, I feel like I owe a debt to fantasy stories like the Hobbit or the works of Poe because they got me interested in reading in the first place. They were fun. And I’m still interested in fantasy, horror, and science fiction. Now I enjoy looking back and trying to figure out how they appealed to me back then and why I’m still interested in them now. My dissertation advisor, Dr. Michaels, is irritated with me that I still like science fiction and comic books. I understand why. After all, I’ve read Paradise Lost…and I still read Spider-Man! Why didn’t I leave Spider-Man behind? It is actually a question I’m trying to answer in some of the essays I’m writing: what is it in these kinds of simple guys-in-masks-beating-each-other-up stories that I still like? The uncharitable answer, from feminist literary criticism or movies like The 40-Year-Old Virgin, is that I’m still a big kid, but I think there’s more to it than arrested development

Did you ever get to write personality profiles?

Editors start you off with obituaries and that’s kind of profile-like but they’re very boilerplate and very much the same from obituary to obituary, but I became very good at sneaking in fun facts and making the tributes more interesting. After a while, whenever there was any kind of profile to be done they’d assign me to it, but I had such narrow interests when I was younger that I didn’t know half of the famous people they asked me to interview until after I interviewed them. When they said “We want you to interview Bobby Thompson, the man who hit the most famous homerun in baseball history, ‘The shot heard ‘round the world,’” I was like “I have never heard of him,” because I never gave a damn about sports. But I met him and he was a really sweet guy and I got to interview him. He reminded me a bit of Jimmy Stewart. The sports reporters were mad I got that gig because they knew I couldn’t really appreciate the full magnitude of meeting the guy. But I was glad I got the story and that I met him. And I know have a story to tell my friends whenever sports comes up as a topic.

When the editors found out that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark was coming to town - she’s a horror film icon associated with Halloween - they figured “we gotta get Marc to talk to her!” because they knew I’m a horror fan. But to me horror is so … natural?... that I didn’t think to ask her a question that any reporter who was not a horror fan would ask her. When I went back to the newsroom, the editor asked, “what did she say when you asked her about the weird connection she makes with sex and death?” and I said “I didn’t ask her that.” The editor couldn’t believe it. “Marc, she wears a teddy and lays spread out on tombstones holding skulls to her bosom!” I shrugged. “I never found that particularly strange that she did that.” That was when they realized they’d asked the wrong person to interview her.

The worst people to interview are politicians up for re-election because all they do is say the same sentence over and over again. Because that’s the one they want in print. And they don’t trust reporters not to quote them out of context. So they speak like talking action figures to avoid accidentally giving reporters ammunition to use against them. So it doesn’t matter what the question is. I say, “How was your day today?” The politician says, “Well, I find it an honor and a privilege to be able to serve the American people as an Assemblyman for New York and I pray to God every day that they will find it in their hearts to re-elect me come the fall.” I say, “What’s your favorite restaurant to eat at?” He says, “Well, I find it an honor and a privilege to be able to serve the American people as an Assemblyman for New York and I pray to God every day that they will find it in their hearts to re-elect me come the fall.” I say, “Are you in favor of cutting taxes or against it?” He says, “Well, I find it an honor and a privilege to be able to serve the American people as an Assemblyman for New York and I pray to God every day that they will find it in their hearts to re-elect me come the fall.” It was terrible.

Did being a reporter change the way you viewed politicians, or the country?

I think the thing that really was weird about being a reporter was that I got into all these neighborhoods I never would have gone to if I weren’t a reporter. And I saw how poor people could get and how rich people can get. As I kid, I didn’t understand class distinctions. I thought everyone had a semi-attached house in the suburbs like I did. And you see these terrible rundown buildings in the city that seem to be earmarked for minorities and smatterings of white college students. And then you see these $100-an-appetizer restaurants in New York frequented by Wall Street executives and patrons of the arts, and you think “ah, these are the people running the country.” It was more of an emotional, gradual change than one shocking moment, but it realigned the way I looked at everything, seeing for the first time such stark class differences, and injustices in housing ‘for minorities.’

What advice do you have for new journalists?

Find out something that’s important to you, and research it and bring it to the public’s attention. While you’re doing that and covering other stories be professional. Even if you get pressure to be sensationalistic, try to avoid it. The truth is more important than selling papers. And if you get heat from the average person on the street because they think you’re a weasel since you’re a reporter, then just be professional and deal with them the best you can. If you’re yourself and you’re good most people will respond to that and figure out you’re “one of the good ones.” Because I had a manner that people did respond to. I got stories that other reporters didn’t because my interviewees would say, “Well you’re a lot nicer than that last reporter, so I’ll tell you a secret I didn’t tell him.” Being a bulldog doesn’t always work.

The other thing I think is important in any job you take is to attach yourself to the people who are the most successful on the job, because the new person is always kind of seized upon by the lone wolf or the loser of the office because they’ve already alienated themselves from everyone else, and all they do is fill your head with gossip and bad stories about other people.

Actually, that's really true.

Isn't it?

I've already had that happen to me.

They go after the new person, because the new person is the only one who will listen to them. Because the newbie doesn't know any better. And, because these bitter veterans hate the job, and they’re losers, they’ll convince you (the newbie) to hate the job, too. You may wind up hating the job, but don’t choose to hate it because some burnout convinces you to. Instead, attach yourself to the victors. They’ll teach you how to really do the job right. And they’ll teach you the right outlook. Although these “Winner” types may not seek you out right away. You may have to prove yourself first before they’ll mentor you and promote you and give you the good stories.

Time for a big change of topic … what is it like planning a wedding?

If I had some real money to pay for the wedding it would be a lot of fun, because I have all of these ideas about not having a boring wedding. But boring or not, it still costs more than I got. But the idea of going around and picking out a place to have it, and figuring out who we’re going to invite is a lot of fun. I’m really impatient, so it’s practicality versus eagerness. I’d like to be married tomorrow, because Stacey is so wonderful. But, practically … it’s probably going to be March, or spring, or something.

I wanna get a suit that makes me look as much like a Jane Austen character as possible. I’m really excited about that. Because at first, the clothes part, I really wasn’t excited about that. But then I saw the Mr. Darcy costume and I was excited about that.

As for the ceremony. We want that to be special and original, too. I know I told Stacey I didn’t want the same old church readings from the letters of Paul. You know, the one about “love is patient, love is kind” and "I am become as sounding brass.” That stuff is heard way too often. At the same time, I don’t want my wedding to be too trendy or so non-traditional it isn’t recognizable as a wedding. I don’t want it to be too carnival-like. I went to one at the Renaissance Faire and it was a little too cute for me. I said to Stacey, “You know I thought I’d like to get married at a place like the Renaissance Faire, but this seems tacky, somehow.” She agreed and said, “Especially the belly-dancers and the fire-swallower.”

Water Cooler Conversations About Baptism

2007-01-25T17:47:00.000-05:00

Despite the fact that I grew up in a predominantly Irish and Italian community in New York, I was widely regarded in high school as the go-to guy to speak to about issues of Catholicism. This was because I was one of the few people in the school who was identified as religious, and I was one of the only ones who appeared to be paying attention during “Released Time,” the Catholic equivalent of Sunday school that was held on Wednesday afternoons at one.

While I tried to keep my religious nature quiet, I was “outed” as devout during a sophomore year biology lesson, when the professor proclaimed that no religious Catholic would make a good scientist. As she argued, Catholics were too superstitious to exercise solid scientific judgment and they needed to check with the pope on what they could and couldn’t believe. While not all of what she said applied to me, the general sentiment did, so I was depressed and angered by the teacher’s seemingly unnecessary monologue. After all, I was a Catholic who had nursed a secret desire to be a marine biologist ever since I saw Jaws for the first time. I had wanted to grow up to be like Richard Dreyfus’ character and go down in shark cages to study Great Whites for a living. And yet, here was this teacher telling me that my superstition would prevent me from effectively studying said Great White, because I would have believed that the shark was made by God and was not produced by an accident of nature or evolution. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize that this teacher wasn’t the final authority on the subject, nor was I willing to admit the extent to which she had a legitimate point. So, I ranted and raved about this to my friends, who were quick to figure out that I was angry because I was one of those superstitious Catholics she was talking about.

It wasn’t long after my Catholicism became public knowledge that I found myself drawn into a lengthy serious of overwrought breakfast and lunch conversations with my fellow students. These conversations included such fun and fancy free topics as the Inquisition, the Crusades, the Rhythm Method of birth control, and Vatican II. Consequently, it wasn’t long before I wished I had kept my big mouth shut, because I felt like I had painted a big target on my back for anyone who ever had a bad experience with a Catholic priest to take a shot at. I can remember enough of what was actually said to be proud of much of what was said by me, and by my debate opponents, just as I remember enough to make me cringe with shame at how dumb a high school kid I was. If I had a time machine now, I would most likely confront my high-school-age-self and smack him repeatedly for being insensitive, just as I would likely give my friends a stern talking to for giving me way more crap than I deserved. That having been said, while I found a lot of these conversations emotionally harrowing at the time, I am grateful to my friends in retrospect, for challenging my beliefs and for helping me hone my abilities as a public debater. I grew a lot smarter as a result of these talks, and a lot more neurotic.

During one such conversation, one of my most frequent sparring partners, David, expressed an interest in my take on the significance of baptism. David’s interest in the topic was very personal, since he had not been baptized as a child and was a self-proclaimed agnostic. So he wanted to know if my religious beliefs caused me to doubt heaven as his ultimate destination. As it happened, I didn’t believe that agnostics were hellbound as a group, but I felt myself being drawn into an emotional and theological minefield as he began questioning me.

It was a long time ago, but I remember David beginning by saying something along these lines: “My mother didn’t baptize me as a baby because she knew that baptism wiped away the stain of Adam and Eve’s original sin. She couldn’t see how this innocent baby who never harmed anyone would be guilty of anything, so she objected to the baptism on general principle.”

“Well, I know what she saying,” I conceded. “I guess the idea is that every new generation has to bear the guilt of crimes committed by the previous generation, so the baptism is a pledge that the baby will do better at life than his sinful ancestors.”

“So are you saying I was born guilty of sins my mom committed, or guilty of sins Adam and Eve committed?”

“Well, I’m not trying to make this about you. I just think the idea makes sense. I mean, imagine growing up in a plantation where your parents or your grandparents owned slaves. It wasn’t your fault. Your parents did it. But you have to feel a little guilty for it, and a lot of people wouldn’t like you just because of ‘guilt by association.’ Just like I’m glad my German grandparents were in America during World War II, so I don’t have to worry that they were part of the S.S. or anything. But I still feel some guilt over being a quarter German. Imagine if I was all German. So the idea of ‘original sin’ makes sense to me. I hate it, but it seems about right.”

David shrugged. “Let’s say I give you that. My mom didn’t baptize me. Does that mean I’m going to hell?”

“I think some Christians believe that. I don’t. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about this kind of stuff. Who gets into heaven and who doesn’t. I think that my Church says that both faith and good deeds get a person in to heaven. So, in the Catholic worldview, God would let Sherlock Holmes into heaven even though Holmes doesn’t believe in him because God would be impressed by how good Holmes is at fighting evil.”

“But what about limbo? I’ve heard that that’s the place people who aren’t baptized go.”

“I don’t really understand the limbo thing. I’ve heard it is like Heaven but not as good, or like hell but not as bad. Nobody really says what it looks like. I don’t even think we’re required to believe in it. And I can’t take it seriously because it makes me think of that game limbo where you have to duck under the pole without falling.”

“Do you think I’m going to wind up in limbo?”

I sighed. “David, why are you asking me this?”

“What do you mean, why am I asking you this?”

“I don’t know. I feel like you’re on my back, or something.”

“I’m not chasing after you, I’m just asking you a simple question. You’re getting defensive and that says you’re insecure about this because you know there’s something wrong with the whole line of thought.”

“Look,” I said, “I think all good people, you included, have a real shot at Heaven. I’m not one of those people that thinks that Hell is bursting at the seams, or who spends lots of time congratulating himself on being better than everyone else around him. And, even if I did think you were going to limbo, who cares? Why should you even care what I think? I’m not that smart. I don’t have all the answers. If believing in Jesus or fairies or Harvey the invisible bunny makes me happy, then why should that threaten you? And why should you want to take that away from me?”

“Because people who tend to believe in Harvey the invisible Bunny tend to hate people who don’t. And they tend to burn people who don’t believe in Harvey at the stake.”
I was shocked quiet for a long moment.

“Well … I would never do that. I’m not out to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to live my life in peace.”

We had much the same conversation on three other occasions, with little change in what was said on either side, and I was getting annoyed at having to repeat myself just as he was getting annoyed at me for not moderating my views. Then, on one morning, three months later, David came to me with a frightened look on his face.

“Marc, I just saw a movie called Warlock.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know it. Pretty good, right?”

“Well, there’s this scene in it where a witch needs the blood of an unbaptized kid to cast a spell, so he finds a five-year-old boy in a playground, kills the boy, and drinks his blood.”

I was beginning to see why David was upset. “I’m sorry about that, man. Don’t dwell on it. It’s just a silly horror movie.”

“But it got me thinking,” David said. “What if a witch singled out me to kill and drink my blood? I’m not baptized.”

“You don’t have to worry. That wasn’t a real witch in the movie. It was an actor. Julian Sands. He was in A Room with a View. He had a nude scene in that and it really disturbed me, so he’s freaked both of us out with his film work.”

“But what if a witch got me?”

“Dude, first of all, witches don’t exist. Second of all, you and me both need to seriously consider watching fewer movies. They’re having a really bad influence on us.”

“Marc, did you tell me once that there’s such a thing as an emergency baptism? That a regular Catholic has the power to baptize and that it doesn’t have to be a priest?”

“I think it has to be a real emergency, like someone dying in a car accident. Then I could baptize them. So, unless you think the witch is waiting outside the cafeteria for you as we speak, this ain’t an emergency.”

David looked at me with eyes pleading. “Can you take me over to that water fountain and baptize me right now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t an emergency. Because I’m not a priest. Because witches don’t exist. Because I don’t want the whole damn school watching me as I splash water-fountain water on your forehead. Why are you putting me in this ridiculous position?”

“Come on, Marc. I know the movie thing is stupid, but it just conjured up all these anxieties I have about not being baptized. I just want to get it out of the way.”

“It won’t be official.”

“Even better. Then I will have been baptized but won’t feel like I’ll have to be Catholic.”

“No!”

“Please…”

“Fine. If it’ll make you leave me alone.” I walked David over to the water fountain, and imitated Latin words I’d heard spoken in vampire movies. “In Nomini Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sanctu. Amen.”

“Thanks, man,” David said.

“So, hopefully that’s good enough to keep the witches at bay and get you into heaven.”

“I thought you said I didn’t need this to get into heaven.”

“That’s what I said. But you’re the one who seems nervous about it. So stop watching crazy horror movies and stop listening to right-wing Christian radio, alright?”

“Alright.”

Afterwards, David didn’t bother me any more with questions about baptism, so I made my peace with him. Unfortunately, a rumor began spreading across the school that I baptized non-Catholics in their sleep and was an undercover recruiter for the Catholic Church, so a lot of the other students looked at me askance and gave me a wide berth for the next few months. And anytime I was thirsty and went to the water fountain for a drink, my friend Griffin would say, “Who are you going to baptize now, Marc?” and I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything funny to say in reply.

- Afterward:

Now, I'm not sure what kind of tone I was going for with this post. I've made fun of both David and I, and I've suggested that we've both had good theological/social points. I can see where some people would read this and side more with young David and some people would side more with young me. But what I have done is capture, fairly well, what we were like way back when. What I am happy to say is that David and I have grown a lot since then, and have benefited greatly from knowing one another. We've challenged each other and grown together. It is fair to say we were friends back then, despite some of the darker undertones of our debate. But we are certainly much better friends now. Over the years, David has helped broaden my mind and moderate my views, and I will always be thankful to him. And, just this past weekend, he was one of the groomsmen at my wedding. He flew out from California to come to New Jersey to stand up for me. He didn't have to do that.

I was deeply touched.

He's a great guy and a one-in-a-million friend.

And, let me assure you, he knows full well that the only real witches are Wiccans who own a lot of Celtic merchandise and promote environmentalist and feminist values. He doesn't really buy into the whole Blair Witch Project view of witches. Not any more, at any rate. :)

He also knows full well that Julian Sands is an actor. David actually worked for a friend of Julian, who vouches for the fact that Julian is quite human and a really nice fellow to boot.

So, lots of love to you, David. You're the best...

Griffin and the Night Visitor

2007-01-25T17:43:00.000-05:00

“Marc, do you believe in ghosts?”

My friend Griffin asked me this question one night after defeating me at a round of Spades, and I must admit it took me by surprise. I’d known him for fourteen years and he had never once expressed any interest whatsoever in anything weird or supernatural. He was a really down-to-earth guy, if a little secretive. In fact, not only was he uninterested in ghosts and monsters, he would sometimes tease me for being interested in such things myself.

(“You like Harry Potter, huh?” he’d ask. “What are you, eight?”

“It’s good. You might like it,” I’d say.

“No, I’m too old for that stuff. I’m nine.”)

So Griffin wasn’t much for horror, science fiction, and fantasy, yet here he was asking me the ultimate nerd question – do ghosts exist?

I knew there must have been some special reason he was bringing it up.

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly.

We were sitting in his living room having a couple of beers. Talk Soup was on TV.
Griffin took a swig of his Sam Adams Cherry Wheat. (By the way, he looks like Kiefer Sutherland.)

“Back when I was in college in Albany, I rented out a room in this old apartment, and it turned out to be haunted.”

Now, Griffin did have an excellent sense of humor, and was very good at regaling me with funny stories about his wild nights out drinking, or his crazy family, but he was never one to put me on. So I took him seriously when he said he saw a ghost back in his college days. But I didn’t know what to think about this sudden revelation.

“Really?” was the best I could manage for a reply.

“Yeah.”

Griffin was quiet for a moment.

I waited for him to continue.

Griffin remained quiet.

“So what was it like?” I asked.

Finally sure that I wasn’t going to start making fun of him about this, Griffin began speaking more freely. “Every Tuesday night this thing would come by at around 1:45 and wake me up. I’d go to bed around 12:30 because I had 8 a.m. classes but it would usually take me a while to drop off. And I’d just be getting into a deep sleep when the ghost would show up and wake me up.”

“What did it look like?”

Griffin seemed as if he were trying hard to recall. “I’m … not … sure.”

“Was it like in the movies? Kind of transparent and all white or all green?” I suddenly thought of Ghostbusters and remembered how most people think that I look like a little bit like the head Ghostbuster, Egon. But I shelved those thoughts and listened for Griffin's answer.

“I don’t know what color it was.”

“Was it transparent?”

“I couldn’t see all of it. I remember there were arms that put pressure on my chest and held me down, and I think there was a face.”

“What did the face look like?”

“Well … I can’t describe it really. I don’t know if I could see it exactly. Maybe there wasn’t a face.”

I was confused now, wondering why he wasn’t sure if it had a face or not. “But you could feel it?”

“Pressing down on me, yeah.”

“Like an attack?”

“No. Not an attack. It just pressed down on me.”

At this point, I couldn’t resist. “Was it a sexy woman ghost?”

“No … definitely not.”

“Oh, well.”

“I don’t know what sex it was.” Griffin got quiet again after saying this.

“Did anyone else see the ghost?” I asked.

“After I moved out, I met someone who had the apartment before me. Before I even said anything to him he asked me if I saw the ghost every Tuesday night.”

“He saw the ghost at the same time you did on the same night?”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if that’s something like the exact time the ghost died. Did you check any of the local newspapers about the history of the apartment? Maybe somebody died tragically in that room on a Tuesday night at … what … 1:45?”

Griffin shook his head.

“Did you find out anything else?”

“Nah. Somebody else moved in after me and I heard that he didn’t like the place. He left pretty quickly. But I didn’t find for sure out why he ditched out.”

At this point, I was wondering how it would be possible for two, maybe three, people to see a ghost every Tuesday night at the same time if ghosts didn’t exist. “You felt a pain in your chest, huh? Did the school serve the same bad mac and cheese every Tuesday for dinner and you all kept getting heartburn?”

Griffin was a good sport about this. “No. No mac and cheese.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that there’s some kind of weird gas leak or something in the water that might have caused you to hallucinate this?”

“I wasn’t hallucinating.”

“Did you get somebody from the gas company over or someone to inspect the house to make sure?”

Griffin made some kind of gesture that could either have been “Of course,” or “of course not.” I wasn’t sure how to interpret it and didn’t ask again for clarification. Either way, he added, “I wasn’t hallucinating.”

I decided to choose my next words carefully. “Um … you were in college at the time. I don’t suppose those were nights when you’d gone out to a party?”

“I didn’t drink on Tuesday nights back then. I had an a.m. class the next day. I’d drink a lot on Thursdays and miss a lot of classes on Fridays, but I was stone cold sober when that damn thing would drop down on my chest every Tuesday night.”

“And you stayed in that apartment the whole semester?”

“Yeah. I had wanted my own apartment because I was sick of annoying roommates. I was so excited to have my own place. Privacy. No loud, dirty guys all the time distracting me from school and having their girlfriends over 24/7. Finally, I had my own place. Then, bam! Every Tuesday, that ghost shows up.”

I suddenly realized what was interesting me most about this exchange. It wasn’t that Griffin felt he saw a ghost. It was that he was so kind of … casual about it. His whole attitude about the experience seemed strange to me. It occurred to me that, if I ever had such an encounter, I’d likely be terrified and run away without looking back, not keep living there until my lease ran out.

“You don’t sound like it scared you at all,” I said. “It wasn’t scary?”

“Not really.”

“Was it exciting seeing proof that ghosts are real?”

“Nah. I wasn’t really excited.”

“So, what was it like?” I asked.

Griffin scowled. “It was annoying. I just wanted to get my sleep. I had an 8 a.m. class the next day and I could never get up in time for it because the ghost kept keeping me up all night. It really pissed me off. Killed my GPA and everything. Stupid ghost. It was great when I moved out of the apartment the next semester so I could finally get some sleep.”

And that was it. That was the whole conversation. And Griffin never spoke about the ghost again, leaving me to wonder what, exactly, our exchange meant. What did it tell me about Griffin? About me? About ghosts? Or was it all too trivial to mean much of anything? It certainly was a strange conversation. And sometimes, now that a few years have passed since that night, I wonder if that conversation even happened at all, or if I had just hallucinated it after having some bad mac and cheese.