Thanksgiving

My parents lightly shake my shoulders when we finally make it to Aunt Ann and Uncle Gerard's house. One full hour in the car is way too exhausting for a six-year-old. After I sit up, my first view out the window is of the house. The house stands two stories high, old and of fading brown wood. It looks like a historic landmark, much like their diner that has been a staple in Ft. Walton for three generations and over 50 years. I walk in ahead of my parents and run through the dim hallway toward my uncle. He calls me a turkey, as we've been known to call each other year-round, and kisses the side of my head as he bearhugs me. He always had that same look, tough Italian meets biker, a full head of dark curls and a manly goatee. My aunt is busy in the kitchen and asks Uncle Gerard to watch the turkey (the bird in the oven, not me) so she can have a cigarette. Camille and I run to the guest bedroom where Grandma and Grandpa have left us gifts on the bed. They always have something for us when we visit.

The cousins on this side of the family are much older than I am. My mom congratulates Vicky on the pregnancy, her first baby. Little Gerard is back from college with another girl, and even though I'm not old enough, I can see how naturally pretty she is. Eddie is about to graduate high school, future plans unknown. Camille and I look forward to when Little Gerard will play with us. We shouldn't play favorites, but he's always been the fun one, the charming one, the one that gives my sister and I just a little extra attention with one extra kiss, one extra slap on the head, one extra piggy back ride.

There's a long dining table, big enough to seat 12, piled with food. The dishes are piled with much more than the standard turkey and cranberry dressing. We're Italian, and the turkey goes down even better for us if there's some eggplant parm by it. My mom makes me a plate and brings it over to our kiddie table, the standard fold-out. We're placed in the living room by the TV. I show Camille my mouthful of chewed ham. Her cackle pierces through everyone's ears.

After dinner Little Gerard finds me and Camille playing in the backyard, and by playing, I mean we're running in circles with no particular purpose. We immediately feel his presence, as he's always been into weights, and quickly rush over to him. He grabs my arms (because I'm the oldest) just above the wrists and starts spinning. In a few seconds, I'm helicoptered, my legs 3 feet off the ground and twisting rapidly clockwise with the rest of my body. He lets me down, and I make exaggerated woe-is-me sounds as I stumble from the dizziness. Camille is giggling as she takes Little Gerard by the hand and skips into the living room, where his huge arms grab her by the armpits and throw her into the air. She screams, "weeeee!" as he catches her on the fall down. She goes up and down, up and down, until my mom screams, "Be careful with the fan, Gerard!"

He puts her down, gives her a little slap on the butt, and jogs toward the back door. Now that the food has settled, the guys are ready to play football. I'm too little, so I play throw and catch with my dad until it's time for the game. As they run through the yard and jump up for batted-down passes, I sit on the patio wishing I were big enough to play. It's not like I'll need the energy for the ride home. I'll be long asleep before we cross the bridge either way.



The drive feels about the same, but as soon as my dad makes that unfamiliar right turn, everything feels completely foreign. Vicky and her husband, Cousin Randy, just bought a new house. We've heard it's a nice one. Randy's landscaping business has become increasingly successful, and there wasn't enough room for the three kids (and fourth on the way) in the other place. We only get lost once with the directions. My dad blames me because I have the directions in my hand. It's always easy blaming the 12-year-old.

I miss the old brown posts in the dining room of my aunt and uncle's. I can remember running through the 12-inch gaps between posts pretending I was a running back. I know I'm too old for that now, but I miss looking at them. It's not that they're gone. We just saw them when we visited Uncle Gerard a month ago. It's that they're not here on Thanksgiving like they've always been.

The turkey probably looked beautiful, but it has already been carved by the time we arrive. There's something largely unsatisfying about walking into the kitchen for the first time Thanksgiving and not seeing a proudly standing bird with its tender, oranged, perfectly basted skin. Grandma would have never allowed them to carve the turkey before we got there. Eddie complains that he's starving, though looking at his now slightly protruding gut, it doesn't look like he's been doing any starving. Before we even get a tour, Vicky announces that we're ready now to eat. We pile up in this unfamiliar kitchen, creating a line that snakes around the counters filled with food. It feels like a buffet.

I enjoy all my food. At least this part hasn't changed. Neither has the part where Uncle Gerard calls me a turkey. Eddie asks me how school is going and then noogies my head for getting A's and saying my favorite music is jazz. He really does look bigger than before. It must be from all that training as a cop, both the physical and the Taco Bell. Which girlfriend Little Gerard has brought to this Thanksgiving will escape me by next year. They all sort of blend into each other at this point.

I think I'm big enough at this point to play in the football game. I'm waiting for the right time to ask if I can play in the game. When the grown-ups get up from the adult table, I plan on going to the car to get the football and throwing it with my dad. I'm going to show them that I'm not a little kid anymore. I can go out for long passes and throw a deep ball. I can't wait to play.

An hour goes by, and none of the adults have come by, except when Aunt Ann brings over scratch-off tickets for me and Camille. This has been her new obsession since she quit smoking. She gives each of us a nickel to scratch with. When Camille sees she won 40 dollars, Aunt Ann cheers and gives her a hug. I win a free ticket, which just allows me to lose later rather than immediately. The other adults don't know Camille won $40 because they're in the dining room. Some are telling stories of my Grandma and Grandpa. This is the sixth Thanksgiving without Grandma, the fifth without Grandpa. I remember their faces and voices, but I'll need help from the older generation to tell me anything more about them. The adults not involved in the reminiscing are arguing over hotels and Park Place.

Some of the miscellaneous third-degree relatives aren't at this Thanksgiving. Even though I've never had a conversation with them beyond, Can you pass me the coke please, Mike? I still feel weird that they're not here to look at. Uncle Gerard has been uncharacteristicly quiet throughout the entire dinner. He's still recovering from a quadruple bypass and has to take it slow this year. Little Gerard is yawning as he rolls the dice and his girl rubs his leg. Eddie keeps rubbing his lower back, saying he hurt it on the job last week. My dad is in a chair in the corner, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open.

It looks like there's no football game this year. The adults are too tired. They're going to be playing Monopoly for a while. I don't like Monopoly.



As soon as class is over, I hop into the Camaro and pick up Stanley. Apparently people call him Stan now, but he was Stanley to me since middle school, and that isn't changing now. Stanley and I use the 5-hour drive home to talk about how our first semester of college is going, how weird it's going to be seeing all those faces again after months away, if they're going to think college has changed us. I'm feeling great about seeing everyone and showing them how grown up I've become. I've also lost a little weight and started lifting arm weights in the dorm room. I think I can even see a pec!

One time zone and about six cd's later, I drop Stanley off at his home. He knows to come over the next night for dessert at my house, as I've told most of my high school friends. I call to give the family a heads up that I'm only 10 minutes away, but they've been prepared for a while. The Christmas tree is already standing tall, my dad just picked up Camille from my old high school, and mom already has lots of food made for the big feast tomorrow. This is the third year in a row we're having Thanksgiving at my home, ever since Aunt Neomi and my cousins moved down from Massachusetts. The past 2 Thanksgivings, Uncle Gerard has called me a turkey from over the phone.

We don't play the usual games of catch-up, my parents and I, because I talk to them enough over the weekends that they know the story. After commenting that I look a little skinnier, we're all caught up in our present lives. They ask me which night I'm going out with Crystal. I've planned everything for Friday night. There will be no room for day-after leftovers when a three-course, three-restaurant date is on the agenda.

The feast is decadent. My mom has been looking to revamp the menu, and the additions are all perfect. Everyone raves about how succulent the rib roast is, including my dad, who brushes aside his self-imposed 13-year diet of no red meat to try it. This Italian, Puerto Rican, and American mixture really works for me. Grandma Carmen's pasteles are a welcome addition, especially since I now have something to put hot sauce on. Of course, Grandma Carmen is a jovial woman whose main purpose is to continually offer her grandkids more food. If I'm not too careful, she will stuff me full before I have a chance to visit the desserts. There are enough desserts to cover an entire table, and actually they do. We didn't need the kitchen table anyway. The kiddie table doesn't take as much room this year, since I'm sitting with the adults.

My friends are kind enough to give me a few hours to recover from the feast before they ring the doorbell. I've been picking at the dessert table for about 5 hours, jokingly announcing that I'm on "Round 8" or "Round 12" of eating. My mom told me a few days ago that we would be having a ton of new desserts, and my friends were more than welcome to come and have some. I want to use this opportunity to get back together with my friends. This Thursday doesn't just feel like a holiday anymore, but rather an event. We've been calling each other through the weeks, but I haven't seen these people for over 3 months now. You never realize that will happen until the first time it does.

Before I left for college, I wrote goodbye letters to 4 friends who I imagined would be there for the long-haul. Now all 4 of them, and about 6 or 7 others, are sitting in my living room, laughing and eating cheesecake, Italian love cake, and trifle. Everyone is speaking as though they've OD'd on caffeine, rambling ridiculously quickly. We have so many questions to ask each other, so many stories to tell, that they're all exploding out of us at once.

I've been making a few friends at UF so far, but they can never replace the ones that were around for the days I was marching on the football field with my trumpet. Even with the subtle changes-- new haircuts, new slang words, new people coming out of the closet-- that will probably get bigger and bigger as we spend more time apart, they will never take away the memories. Everyone agrees.

We stand outside at the top of my driveway in the chilly starlight, people intending to drive away in their cars but instead pausing for one more story. My parents come out to remind me to put the desserts in the fridge when I go to bed. I didn't realize it was so late. Eventually a lull hits the conversation. Gary strikes in with his "Seven minutes" theory that conversations always have a pause around the seven-minute mark. He used to say this everytime there was a pause back in high school. Half of us laugh, and the other half jokingly groan. Nonetheless, the pause is a cue that the night has run its course. We all say goodnight to each other, and I remind Crystal that I'll pick her up at 7 tomorrow.

This was a fantastic time. We should do this every year.



I step down cautiously to the ground of the runway and immediately feel the difference in climate. I no longer need the jacket that bundled me in the northeastern cold this morning. Florida knows no limits to 75 degree weather. I take off my jacket and tuck it under my arm as I head toward the inside terminal. It's not a long walk from there to where friends and family wait to pickup their loved ones. Pensacola Regional Airport is rather small.

Never have I really understood why I crack a smile whenever I spot my family in the distant crowd of people awaiting their loved ones at the airport, but I do this everytime I return home. That dopey smile comes up again as I see them in front of the pack. They usually find a spot up front so they can get to me as soon as I cross the restricted threshold. Their arms have reached out and pointed in my direction, so I know they've spotted me. When I get within 100 feet, my dad rubs his chin with his whole hand to mock my 3-day-old stubble. They wish that I'd present myself cleanly shaven. I like how the shadow makes me look older than my 23 years, though I loathe how my thinning hair contributes just the same. We share in some kisses on the cheek and hugs and head down to get my luggage. My dad complains that I should have just carried the bag on the plane with me. He can be a real smartass, though it doesn't change the fact that he's right on this matter. My smartass reply is to tell him with my Christopher from The Sopranos impression to go downstairs and get my bag ready. It's good to know we can pick up where we left off.

I haven't slept much in the days leading to Thanksgiving. Shuffling between work and school projects hasn't allowed me time to sit back and appreciate that my favorite holiday is here. When I get into bed, I press down slightly with the weight from my legs against the waterbed vinyl and quickly lift up. The gentle waves remind me of five years ago, when many of my high school friends came over to hang out. We were in our first semesters of college then. We've all moved on since that time, both emotionally and geographically. It's hard to find a meeting place for Thanksgiving dessert when our dinners will be in different parts of the country.

This spot on the bed is where I wrote those 4 letters, the ones for the high school friends I was sure would stay close. None of them will be over for dessert. I'm in regular contact with the ones in New York and Texas. I haven't seen the one in Illinois in at least 2 years. The other one I heard got married and lives in Boston, but I didn't get an invitation, understandable considering I haven't had direct contact with her in about 4 years.

The aroma of the rib roast is subtly permeating upstairs when I wake up. Bright beams of sunlight are seeping through my blinds. I can't remember the last time I slept until 10 am. Aunt Neomi expects us at her new home at 3, so I figure I should go downstairs and help with the cooking. My mom has March of the Wooden Soldiers playing in the VCR. She loves that movie. We play it every year around Thanksgiving or Christmas. After JR greets me at the bottom of the stairs with some licks and a wagging tail, I go to sample some delicious rainbow cookies Camille made last night. My dad tells me that Uncle Gerard said Happy Thanksgiving. End of message. I missed the call while I was sleeping.

Perhaps I will see this side of the family, the one with which I spent my childhood Thanksgivings, when I come home for Christmas. One thing is for sure, though: we won't be meeting at the diner. At 65, Uncle Gerard is retiring. Three generations of stories will forever rest in the walls of what will soon become characterless office spaces.

My family asks how those high school friends from the Thanksgiving dessert get-togethers are doing. Camille is in shock when I tell her Crystal is getting married in the Spring. There are still one or two friends from those original get-togethers who are in town this year for the holiday. The original 10 or so had dwindled to 8... 6... until last year when I sat on the couch watching music videos with 3 of those old faces, none of the infamous 4 included. Of the dwindled 3, the one I'm closest to isn't here this year, and neither will be the Thanksgiving dessert get-together. I call no one. I'll sample the desserts through 15 rounds with just the family at Aunt Neomi's house.

In the living room is the framed picture Camille and I got mom and dad for their anniversary this year: a black-and-white in front of my dad's childhood home, standing beside a color photo of our reenactment this summer, 18 years later. When I come into town, Camille and I love to watch our old home videos that remind us of times like the ones in the black-and-white photo. It's funny how you can live these experiences, observe them on tape (or now, thanks to our new burner, dvd), and still find new things to laugh at on each watching. Camille checks the collection to see what era of our youth we should watch. She and I are now at the ages our cousins were when we had those Thanksgivings at the old brown house.

I ask my mom how Little Anthony is doing. She says he'll be huge by the time I finally get to see him. I was there when his parents, Little Gerard and Stephanie, got married earlier this year, but I have yet to see the start of the next generation. The picture I have of him and Little Gerard is incredible. I've caught myself randomly opening the file on my computer from time to time. I hope that I'm able to visit often enough that I can see him progressively grow.

Before you know it, he'll be big enough for me to swing him by his wrists and play helicopter.

2 Ways to Explain

ok so im soooooo sorry for the lack of updates lately. you know how crazy it can get LOL! no seriously its been too long, i miss you guys LOL! k so even though i havent had much time to write lately heres a quick update.

• started the new internship. im a crisis worker now. pretty cool, huh? i get to help all the people who come to the hospital and need psychological help, like they tried to commit suicide or something. im psyched!!!
• we had a social for our psychology club that im chair of. we went to a bar for happy hour. it was fun but nobody came :(
• schools ok. i got an a on my paper. hellz yeah!
• sent my first application for grad school in the mail wednesday. yep going for the doctorate. 6 more applications, its so damn expensive! wish me luck!
• i lost my journal design BOOOOOO!!!!! my old school got rid of my webspace for files, guess b/c ive been gone too long.

thats it for now b/c i gotta do some hw. finals are coming up. dont get mad at me if i space out and dont update for a while LOL! laterz

Current Mood: cheerful :)
Current Music: that new laffy taffy song!!!



For the last month or so, you could say that I've been too tied up with academic demands to sit at my computer for an evening and enjoy a few hours of leisure writing, but I've always managed to find time for the things that really matter to me. That's not all there is to it. In late October, I took a step back and felt my life flashing backward and forward, a mixture of archived memories and anticipated futures. I could see obvious parallels between a turning point from my past and the path I could potentially follow in the near future. My experiences were unique, one few can share, yet general enough for the emotion behind them to be universally understood. And apparently, I struck a nerve with many people.

I had never had people call me just to say that they liked what I had written. For days I would receive random thank you's and compliments from people whose names are now, sadly, more familiar than their faces. Friends said they never really understood how I'd felt back then until now. I didn't know how to react when people told me they cried, that my words made them cry. Between the feedback I was receiving and finishing my first boxing article, I really felt like a writer, partaking in a craft that had gradually become more than a mere hobby.

I could hardly wait to write another story. The problem was, however, that I had to do just that, wait. There were nights where I had finished my work in enough to time enjoy a few hours of solace at the computer, but when it came to writing, I had nothing. Correction, I had options, a few ideas here and there, but nothing that really meant something to me. At that point, I decided to save the writing for great, thought-provoking moments of my life.

The sticking point was that I got caught between not settling to write something unless I was truly inspired to write something great and accepting that I can't force those things. The batter that swings for a home run every time has to accept that at times he will strike out (I can't believe I used that horrid analogy, but it's the best-fitting to what I want to convey). Shit, it took me years to write something that made my best friend cry. What makes me think that I'll have something to hit like that every week?

The truth is that most of my days include standard routine. I wake up, make a cup of coffee, go to my internship, come back home, do some schoolwork, hit the heavybag, eat 2.5 meals, take one good shit, and then it's back to bed. Even on those nights where I'm restless in bed because my mind is racing, my thoughts consist of the standard things guys think of in their early-20s. Where will I be a year from now? Am I on the right track? Could I see myself with her long-term? What do I need to do to prepare for tomorrow's presentation? Was that petite brunette who smiled in my direction into me? All of this would be regurgitation of previous posts.

One of my shortcomings is that I desire and expect greatness in whatever I do. This sounds like a strength I'm sure, and in some ways, and at many times, it is. When the greatness doesn't come right away, however, I get discouraged enough to where I lose the hunger whenever my sights inevitably hit another focus. My passions and interests come in cycles. When I get frustrated that I haven't written the perfect song, I put down my notebook and grab a sauce pan. When I fail to conquer French cuisine that rivals a 5-star restaurant, I dissect old boxing matches. When I can't slip the right hook and just want to sit on the couch and have a pizza, I try to speed-learn Spanish.

The one constant in all this has been recreational writing. It's a hobby, a pasttime, a love of mine. It'll be around as long as I still enjoy it. Even if I have to strikeout once in a while.

Beyond The Happy Wanderer

A reputable boxing site just published an article of mine. I don't give a shit if you know nothing about boxing. This is a big deal to me! Check it out:

http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=4956&more=1

Distant

She told me that all the way back when she was a child, she had picked out her first daughter's future name. I laughed and said that I wasn't sure if "Emily Kate" went well with an Italian name like "Perillo". That didn't matter, she said, because she was the mother, had picked out the name in advance, and besides, Emily Kate fits in just fine in the South. This is true, I said, except that I wasn't sure if I wanted to settle down in the South, even though that's where our children's grandparents would be. Leave the South? I was crazy, she thought.

We came from very different places.

A few moments later, we kissed on her front porch. The combination of the moon-lit sky and the fog lights made her face shine even moreso than usual. I rubbed my thumb gently past her cheek, stopping the tear as it cascaded down her soft, pure skin. We knew that the time would come again soon when we could see each other, when we could be together, but what was merely 3 weeks always felt like 21 days. I told her I loved her. She loved me too, she replied back. Then I got into my car and drove away, ready to travel several hundred miles back to school.



The wedding took place on a beautiful fall afternoon, in the very church she had grown up with. It was a church I had come to know better once we started dating. I never felt comfortable there, and I knew I never would about 5 minutes into our first Sunday school class together. I had to bite my tongue after the teacher said in passing that "Gore had the same agenda as bin Laden." Nonetheless, I continued to frequent this church because I knew it was important to her, I knew it was important for us, and I knew that I loved her genuinely.

She deserved to get married in such a beautiful place, though, particularly a place that loved her and understood her so. This was the day she had waited for, a day we had talked about years before. On the third day of our romance, we were making out on my parents' couch, and she pushed my shoulders back, stared me in the eyes, and made it very clear.

"I won't have sex with you unless you marry me," she whispered with the sharpest of conviction.

And on this fall afternoon 4 years later, she could wear that ivory white dress in full honesty. She's always been a wonderful person. I wish God made more people like her. She deserved that day, to walk down her aisle as the women stood open-eyed and the men stood open-jawed at her beauty. I'm sure that deep inside she was beaming as brightly as her famous wide smile. Finally on that day, those magic words were spoken.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride."

She got a kiss from her true love, a man who deeply loved her, a man more than willing to wait, a man who wanted to stay with her in the South, a man who was ok with Emily Kate.

I was several hundred miles away, back at school, a wedding invitation sitting safely on the top corner of my coffee table.



Three years ago, as I drove away from her house for the final time, no U-turn in sight, I thought about how the distance affected our relationship. I didn't attribute the distance to our breakup; there were several rational reasons for that. What being so far away from her did, however, was make the relationship unfairly draining on us both. It was hard to take a break from studying so I could talk to a picture of her after she got home from the gym. It was hard only being able to offer distant words of comfort when she felt scared and helpless. It was hard to drive hours every third weekend to see her for 2 days. It was hard to see her cry when I drove away. It was hard never having a rhythm to the relationship. It was hard to face facts that our relationship could not flourish until one of us was willing to move.

But it was hardest to let go once we realized that we would never do that for each other.

We always stayed on good, friendly terms. Months after our breakup, I thanked her for all the lessons I got from her and from us. I felt blessed for knowing her in such an intimate way. Never before did I have a clue at what it took to make a relationship work. Who ever does, I suppose, but at least I had a better idea now. I was happier with her than I ever had been before, and I was so grateful for our chance to grow together.

But I also told myself that I would never put myself in that position again. I had learned enough about long-distance relationships to decide that I couldn't tolerate the pain that came from always saying goodbye to the one I loved, talking more frequently to a speaker than a beautiful face, with no realistic image of a future together. Any distance could only be short-term. I wouldn't put myself in the position to fall in love with someone I knew I'd never be with.



We had gone on a few dates before, but I had never seen this look on her face. She was far and away the most mature woman I'd ever dated, and I'd always looked at her as this controlled, grounded woman. But on this night, as I warmed her in my arms after hours of incredible conversation in the chilling rain, I saw as giddy and innocent a grin as I'd ever seen. She had been holding in exactly how excited she was to see me. I felt the same. The bond was growing stronger.

On the side of the couch were my dress shoes. I slid them back on my feet, ready to leave her apartment and bid her goodnight. I told her I'd call her in the morning. She knew I meant it. She thanked me for a wonderful night, for all our time together. I was so thankful I had bumped into her on that fateful April night.

Just as I was getting ready to kiss her goodnight and walk out her door, she took a pause and pondered on one thought.

"I wish you lived closer."

Victorious in Defeat

Going back to my elementary days, I've seen countless people that drew my awe because they were just so "cool." As I got older I found myself more and more attracted to these people, though the factors that created this aura of coolness had no doubt changed. When I was more rapidly maturing, I soon recognized that not all who appeared cool actually were; many merely hid behind an image, a mirage whose beauty slowly but surely dissipated as it was more closely approached. I began to notice that not everyone who was cool fit the same bill. Many, in fact, had images that would normally be perceived as anything but cool. They could wear glasses, tuck in their polo shirt, have a big ketchup stain on their jeans. It didn't matter what they looked like. When they spoke, and when they acted, I knew.

You know what made these people ones I'd want to be with, ones I'd want to be? They knew who they were and wore it on their sleeve. They were confident, not in an outward bragging manner, but their words and actions were honest and convicting. There was no effort in hiding their true selves, in creating any fictitious or magnifying image. Far from flawed they were. Just as important as knowing who they were, they knew who they weren't. What separated them from the rest of us was, just as important as holding no reservations in showing who they were, they held no reservations in showing who they weren't.

Do not confuse the person who acknowledges his limitations with the one who is defeated. A fine line exists between the defeated and the determined. Both acknowledge their shortcomings, but one takes a more positive outlook, looking for how outcomes can change, how to better their situation, how to better themselves. They may end up in the same place as the defeated, but the determined get their with heads held highly, prepared for the next journey.

10 Count of Silence

Rest in peace, Leavander Johnson.

You leave this world a champion in all boxing fans' hearts.

You're a Musician?

When you're sitting at your desk doing work, and you turn around and make incidental eye contact with someone you don't know, sometimes you do the half-smile-and-nod, right?

But do you walk over to the person, extend your hand, and say, "Hi, I'm (first name)."? And then walk away?

No?

Well, David Crosby does.

Inspired by Facebook

Ask people what their favorite movies are, and they'll proceed to mention a few Oscar winners, a few classic comedies, and one or two lesser-knowns. Ask people what their favorite foods are, and once they get past pizza, the list is a random menu of savory decadence that leaves you running to the supermarket (unless, of course, their favorite foods are celery and rice cakes). Ask people what their favorite anything is, and they should tell you those choice-selects that give them more enjoyment than whatever the alternatives may be.

You should be able to get a better idea about who someone is when they list their favorites.

But ask people what their favorite music is, and watch as they try nauseatingly to show you that they are the all-encompassing music lover!

Pretty much anything!
Oh man, where do I begin? I pretty much love it all!
All kinds!
Oh God, too much to choose from!
I listen to EVERYTHING!

What is it about music that makes us say this? If you're one of these people, I'll let you in on a secret: nobody believes you! We know that maybe your radio will show some diversity because you had the foresight to program a Top 40, alternative, and hip hop station in the presets (and maybe even a country station and the public access station!), but we also know that at least two of those stations are symbolic and rarely ever get any play. You're a freakin liar, you freakin liar!

I've come up with a few reasons people may do this:

1) To be accepted by the "in" crowd. I'm not talking about in crowd in the sense of what's topping TRL, but rather whoever you're associating with that you want to like you. The music (and musicians) you listen to often says a lot about you and who you identify with. Hip hop, punk, emo, whatever, it can encompass an entire person's life. And if you don't say you listen to that kind of music, how is someone dedicated to it going to relate to and accept you? Actually they'd probably be able to still like you fine, but hey, even if I don't really know anything about classical, Hans won't think I don't if I say I like all kinds of music, right? We still have so much in common now! This is an unconscious motive 99% of the time.

2) To avoid stereotypes or stigmas. Again, on the knowledge that music can be a big indicator of who you are, saying you're a country boy at heart can forever label you as the guy in the pickup who couldn't move to the new Pharrell mix to save his life. We don't want to be labelled by what music we listen to and thus try to make ourselves appear more complex than we actually are. People, it's ok to have simple, easy-to-identify music tastes. We know you're complex. We all are. We just don't need to lie about our music tastes to prove it. If someone bases his whole opinion of you on your 80 Elton John cd's, then fuck him.

3) They honestly believe it. These people lack insight and should consider spending more time alone to figure out who they really are.

4) To be cooler than you. These people are douchebags and should consider spending more time alone to figure out who they really are. And they are not cooler than you. Sadly, I'd probably put myself in this list before any of the above.

5) They haven't really given it much thought. They say it with a shrug, resigned to the fact that they can't give an honest answer. Music isn't the most important thing to these people. And that's fine. If you like wine but aren't an afficionado, it's ok to not know what brands of merlot you like. You can just say "all kinds' of merlot because you like merlot as a whole but haven't dived into Napa Valley.

I need some Pinot Noir now (I'm not drinking any fucking merlot!).

6) Fear of appearing close-minded. I almost labelled this one "Fear of appearing prejudiced" but decided that put too narrow a scope, and an unfair one at that, on the issue. These people are the ones who want you to think they like hip hop so you don't think they're not down with black people, when in actuality they really only like the occasional 50 Cent or Ludacris single. They don't want to alienate an entire fan base by saying they don't really like jazz. The "all kinds" response includes all groups and doesn't leave anyone out. They appear to like all kinds of music; therefore, they appear to like all kinds of people and cultures.

I'm not saying I don't do this stretching of musical tastes myself. When making a compilation for someone, I'll make a conscious attempt to incorporate many flavors to not only give them something new, but also to show off my (self-perceived) extensive tastes. It's hard sometimes to avoid being a music snob when you want to show an eclectic mix of tastes.

But I never say that I like "everything," for two reasons. One, that tells someone dick about what I listen to. And two, it's not true. I don't like everything. If I did, then I'd know nothing about music. To like it all would be to lack a discriminating ear, to like the subpar, the mediocre, to like things I don't really understand. Not everything hits me the same way. I don't mind the occasional techno mix at a club, but I couldn't show you a techno album on my shelf. I'm openly indifferent to Dave Matthews Band and others with a copycat sound. I will forever curse 80s pop for allowing the synthesizer to pollute the mainstream. And if every one of your music videos consists of you bragging about the ho's that want you as you're surrounded by retro jerseys and random girls dancing in the background, you can probably assume I'm not searching you on Ticketmaster anytime soon.

I'm not saying you shouldn't be diverse in your music selection; I actually promote the opposite. There is so much good music out there consisting of many different sounds from the mouths/instruments of people who are telling very different stories. You can enjoy both Tchiakovsky and Stefani, both Tony Bennett and Palo Viejo, both Hanson and Tupac (and yes, I've played the hell out of my 2 Hanson and 7 Tupac albums). In fact, listening to many different types of music will help you become more knowledged of other cultures, different eras, even your own self. But go out there and explore. Find what the things are that you truly like about music. If you settle on saying you like it all, there's not much drive to go out there and explore something new.

You don't like all kinds of music. You like what you like, and that's fine. It's everything to you. It's just not EVERYTHING!

Distraction

I had been waiting in the apartment next door for over 20 minutes, and they had yet to return with the beer from my fridge. The can in my hand was completely seeped of any condensation, and the drops sticking to the bottom were warm. My options in this situation were few. Going on about the current state of elementary schools with the sixty-year-old couple on the nearby couch didn't enthrall me, I couldn't flirt with my friend's cousins at a time like this, and my next visit to the pile of deli meats and brownies would be my sixth.

It took about 10 steps to reach my apartment, but when I got there, the front door rejected me. The two girls inside had turned the locked. Through the door I could hear their surprised giggles when I jerked the unwielding doorknob, much like how second graders react when they hear the word "poop." After they unlocked the door, I grabbed a cold beer and noticed the sparkles now covering my weight machine. They had come off as the girl in the black glitter dress messed around with the levers and pulleys on the machine. The other girl, in a black power suit, said they locked the door so I wouldn't see spread eagle as I walked in. Then they had a laugh, the girl in the black glitter dress and the girl in the black power suit.

Black glitter dress. Black power suit. Me in my black suit pants. We were all dressed in black.

We discussed who would be sober enough to drive in an hour. None of the guests next door knew how to get there, so I decided that I would put my beer back in the fridge and lead the line of cars. I would take the others over in an hour. The girl in the black power suit nodded in approval. Then there was no more laughter. It got quiet rather quickly.

For a brief moment, we had distracted ourselves from the real reason we were together. This girl in the black glitter dress, this girl in the black power suit, I had never met them before. But we were an instant united front, bound for reasons that would make us wish we hadn't yet met. We left my apartment to get ready to bury a loved one.

To bury a woman who died too young, too quickly, too soon.

To bury the mother of this girl in the black power suit.



I'm still relatively unsure of myself when going from Point A to Point B in New York, but on this Friday night, I found the bar in uptown Manhattan with no trouble. As the bouncer took a closer look at my Florida ID, a girl screamed from my left, "It's a fake! Don't let that bitch in!" She was merely a drunkard who didn't deserve my attention, but had she not yelled in inebriated impulse, I would have missed the people person people I had come to see, who happened to pick an outdoor table beside the main entrance. I spread my arms out to announce my presence to the group. A pleased beauty streched out toward me and puckered her pillow lips. I gave them a kiss and sat down in the seat she had saved for me.

We had pitcher upon pitcher of Killian's, a beer pong table, front row seats to a drunkard violently dragged against the ground by bouncers, some overall good times. Things got even better when my buddy Hubbard arrived, sat down, and proceeded to talk me up to the girls at our table. I had a ball pretending to be embarrassed, my face saying "Oh, come on now, stop!" while inside I discreetly told myself, "This is what friends are for, and damn she looks impressed!" When it came out that I may soon be working on my Ph.D. in New York, the girl looked pleasantly surprised, and the others nodded in praise. Inside, however, I felt some of the nerves, frustration, and fear I had travelled 3 hours to escape.

I didn't tell any of them that I had one week to solve a problem with my class schedule, an issue that would push my graduation date back a full year if not resolved. All my talk of leaving Pennsylvania in a year, of pursuing a life in the greatest city I've ever known, it would only accentuate my failure of not backing up my boasting if I couldn't get my shit together. The mystery of where I'll be one year from today is exciting and will be worth it if I end up some place meaningful. To be at a standstill, delaying the next step one year, would feel like I wasted a vital year of my twenties.

For a brief moment, I had distracted myself from the reality that I faced the possibility of putting my life on hold for one more year. I tried not to think about what I couldn't deal with for another few days. New York was one of my points of solace, where I could escape from everything I didn't want to face.

The mess in your home doesn't clean itself up while you're away on vacation. I couldn't avoid what faced me in Harrisburg.



The cute Irish girl and her not-as-cute Irish friend were no longer in the lounge by the time we returned to the hotel. They must have gone to bed early, as I noticed they had already changed from their evening wear to booty-hugging sleep wear before Hubbard and I had stepped out for a quick bite. Either way, we would call it a night at the bar in the hotel lounge. We'd shared in enough wild moments over the previous few days; it was time to sit back and chill.

Even though we're friends from high school, Hubbard and I rarely talk about the good old days of our adolescent years. Most of our talks focus around women, the future, the arts, and mocking lead singers who have disgusting tones to their voices (our personal favorite is the guy from New Found Glory). But as we sat 2 amongst empty tables for 4, the memories and archived tales came one after the other. We tested each other with scenarios, and without fail we were able to fill in the details of each memory:

The time when we found a decapitated stuffed puppy dog on my doorstep, along with a note that read, Leave me alone or you'll end up like Rudolph. Amelia, when we knew our friend Amelia was being set up, and after a few hours of sleuthing, we got confessions from the girls who set her up by the next afternoon.

The time when Pudge shed a tear, one single tear, after getting in a fight with Little Hubbard. And we all laughed.

The time when Hubbard said in the middle of a serious conversation, "I like the dick."

(That last one actually happened last weekend, but I had to get that out there! Seriously, who starts a random sentence like that? I like the dick?)

It felt great to laugh about old times with someone also sharing in present times. We were men remembering when we were boys, grasping pints of Guinness in the hands that once held marching band trumpets. Enjoying the simpler things in life in the middle of a ritzy New York City hotel. Not a stressor in sight. At peace with the world.

For a brief moment, he had distracted himself from the depression, anger, and confusion that had plagued the past 6 months of his life and, in turn, our friendship. No matter how far we deviated from the subject, I knew it was inevitable for his breakup to come into the discussion again. Sure enough, there was a brief pause in conversation. I filled the space by sipping on more Guinness. When I put my glass down, he looked over with that glassy gaze and said a simple phrase that contained every emotion we had put on hold.

I miss her, man.



We all have those moments, a time we spend keeping ourselves busy to avoid what we fear to face. Points in time come where our problems seem to have culminated and encompassed our every minute. We look at everyone around us, arms around their wives or reading on an outside bench, and we ask ourselves, "Why can't life be as simple as that?" So we try to take a breather from our everyday pressures, keeping ourselves occupied with an array of activities as to disallow our minds to go anywhere else. This is ulimately a short-term solution. In a sudden moment, your mind will slow and have no choice but to remember the very things you're trying to forget.

Going away from your everyday life and having fun doesn't give you a pass from the responsibilities and hardships of life. You're running in a track circle, and before you know it, you're in the same spot you ran from, and everything left at the starting point is still waiting for you. But at the same time, dealing with the responsiblities and hardships of life doesn't always give you a pass from going out and finding your own enjoyment. Often we get stuck dedicating all our time to the problems in our immediate future. They encompass our every thought to the point where it feels as though nothing else can be done until this problem goes away. Sometimes this is true. Many times it's not. When it is, we have a duty to act as we should, combat our issues in the best way possible. When it's not, sometimes it's necessary to give ourselves a break, a time to enjoy the people, the happenings, the little distractions that make life worthwhile.

Carpe Diem

When the people in my program started receiving Year Progress Reviews from the faculty, I was grotesquely curious about what my letter would say. I had no idea that at the end of the school year, my professors would gather together to discuss me; talk about their perceptions of my performance, attitude, and effort; and eventually hand me their verdict of my being on scholastic stationary. The stories I was hearing were not promising: letters informing you that “your study habits have been brought into question” or “your professors feel that your performance would improve if you let your voice be heard and contributed to class discussions” let you know that faculty took note of all their students’ shortcomings.

Had my professors been looking at me this whole year with hidden suspicions of my weaknesses? Have they been putting a lens to flaws I didn't even know I had? Was my professor offended when I said "shit" in class? I had to know what they thought.

A few days later when I got my letter, I ripped the envelope quickly and scanned through the report.

Dear Anthony... over the past year... exceptional performance... stellar reputation... nice body... yada yada yada...

... and then somewhere near the end:

We would like to see you explore more opportunities with the Applied Psychology Association of Penn State Harrisburg.

So after all that, the thing they’d like me to work on is to go to more student club meetings? They want me to be more social? That’s it? What a fucking joke! I had a brief laugh (and gave myself a brief pat on the back; I can be an arrogant bitch sometimes). In the end, though, I took note of their advice.



My parents bought me a ticket to Florida for me to come down for my birthday. Every day I spent my time with my wonderful family and my aunt and cousins, who had just moved from 15 minutes away to actually into the neighborhood. Back in college I’d return home and catch up with a few of those friends who happened to be in the area. It could be at my house, Starbucks, the pub. Wherever it was, we’d hang out and enjoy the company of the friends we find ourselves relying more and more upon memories to preserve a bond.

Over a game of poker, my cousin asked me if I still had friends in Pensacola. I think it may have been the first time I verbalized something that had hit me a year before: everyone had finally moved on. While not all my friends left Pensacola after high school, over the last five years they’ve found jobs, moved to other cities, gotten married, pursued acting in New York, all the usual evolutions.

Every Thanksgiving after high school, I’d call up some old friends to come over after dinner, hang out, and eat dessert at my house. Last year, the group dwindled to three people. It’s very possible there won’t be anyone to call this year.

Here’s the cliché part where I’m supposed to say that I took for granted that my friends were here and assumed they’d always stay frozen in time while I was off doing my own things. The truth is I always knew that we would all move on slowly but surely. I wasn’t naïve to the fact that one day my family would be the only people at the door to greet me at home. Prepared or not, though, I still felt somber. My metaphorical teenage bedroom had finally become barren of all things except packed boxes of yearbooks and old movie ticket stubs.



If all goes well, I should be going for my doctorate in the fall of 2006 (though that year sounds greatly futuristic, keep in mind that yes, 2006 is only 5 months away). Those loathsome days of requesting letters of recommendation, tweaking my personal statements, and mailing applications to graduate schools are soon returning. Many of my envelopes will be addressed to schools in the New York area. I want to be in New York.

Whether I'm drinking a beer with Jerk in Baltimore or sitting in an acting studio a few blocks from Times Square, I make it very clear during conversation that my latest aspirations take me to New York. It’s odd, but I have more friends and people I genuinely like spending time with in New York City than anywhere else. I have family there and cousins my own age whose company I enjoy. My best friend from high school lives in Queens. I discover more and more of my college friends’ endeavors are taking them to Manhattan. When I go out with the woman I’m currently having the pleasure of getting to know, I pick her up in Harlem. And then we have the countless other relatives scattered across the outskirts of the city, family who are my best link to the past, to my past.

My best friend from college now lives less than 90 minutes away in Maryland. Between all the fun I know I'll have with Jerk and reliving the stories I always end up with while in New York, I’m constantly arranging plans to visit all these people I care about. Luckily I love my car Lorraine, and equipped with my sexy new iPod, I’m always ready to get in my car and head out to wherever God takes me.

I have weekly meetings with a professor of mine with whom I’m working on a research project, a project that could potentially give me one of those extra lines on my resumé that would break a tie with fellow doctoral applicants. He laughed when I told him that I had just returned from a weekend in Baltimore. I spend my time everywhere but Harrisburg, he said. That’s a fairly accurate statement. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I came into our Monday meeting and not been either just returning from a trip or about to leave for somewhere.



Part of my reason for traveling so much this summer is to take advantage of this lighter schedule, to “seize the day” in a way, but another motive lies beneath. What would I do here in Harrisburg? Who do I have here to confide in, to be my complete self around, to get drunk with? I’ve been in Pennsylvania a year now, and the truth is that I can count the number of true friends I have here, people I trust and feel wholly comfortable showing all sides of me to, on one hand.

And I’d still have 3 fingers to spare.

Summer is wrapping up. The friend on my middle finger packs up and returns to school in about a week. The buddy on my pointer finger lives 45 minutes away. My Baltimore and New York friends will be traveling on business, packed with work, back at school. Fall semester will bring papers and studying that will require efforts that seep into the weekends. Soon I will have little practical choice but to keep my butt in park and have extensive stays in Harrisburg.

I’m not willing to sit on my couch in the fall, X-ing out the passing days on the calendar until my next trip to the outside. Like it or not, I need to be in Harrisburg for the next year. And despite what I may say about this city, there's a lot of good here, and there are tons of great people to befriend. I just have to find them.

When it's all said and done, I will have spent 2 years of my life in Harrisburg. That may not seem like a long time, but I have a sagging shoe box full of memories from my 2 years in the dorms of East Hall. At this point in my life, 2 years is an era, about 8.5% of my existence. With the setup of my school and work schedule, the opportunities to fill a scrapbook are few, but they exist. I've got to open myself up to finding them, even if that means going to a stupid student meeting from time to time.

The Note I Put on My Door

Know who you are,
and be proud of him.

I still don't know how these words were engrained into my brain, and I still don't know what compelled me to scribble this phrase into a place where I'll see it everytime I prepare to go out.

But at the time I decided to focus my life on that theme, I started to make commitments toward becoming a better person. I've grown immensely in the past few months. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be as prepared to seize the opportunities within my grasp as I am today.

For the most part, I'm still figuring out who I am. It's a process that never ceases. But I'm proud at what I've discovered about myself recently. I can use this to try and achieve everything that's at hand.

And fuck no, I didn't embrace Scientology or anything like that.

Reflection

Last week, for the first time in almost 9 years, I cried. My dry spell of tears has long been considered an unexpected and disturbing phenomenon by my friends. How could a pussy like me not dampen a single tissue in those emotionally endearing years between ages 14 and 22? Now, don't misunderstand, in many instances my eyes have watered. Sometimes it's gotten to the point where my face subtly quivered. But even in those passionate times-- when I drove away from the first girl I ever loved, when my MS-stricken grandmother stood from her wheelchair and took 8 steps, when I heard that my friend had died from an accidental shotgun blast to the neck-- never did a tear fully cascade down my face.

I'm not about to detail the incredible moment that made me cry (that story would too strongly mirror something I wrote last October). What impacted me from that weekend, however, allowed me to maintain that euphoria I felt last week in a more subdued, long-term state.

Of the people I spent that weekend with, only with a few had I experienced legitimate quality time. For the most part, these people and I had never called each other on the phone, had never asked each other for advice about women, had never met down the street for a burger. Some were even shaking my hand and telling me their names for the first time.

And yet we shared a connection that gave to a true sense of care for one another.

When 12 of us all put a single hand on the back of the guy we had all come for-- so he could feel the love we had for him-- I felt a shared respect among all the rest. Though I didn't know them factually, I knew what mattered. I was immediately drawn to their genuineness, the tall posture they carried, the confidence they exuded when relaying their passions.

That they were friends of a guy I knew much about already said enough to me of their characters.

And then they represented themselves accordingly, allowing me to treasure a flashing moment with people who, though I may forget their names and stories with time, will always be etched into a fond experience of my life.

My friends have some incredible friends. What does that say of me.

The South African Chronicles, Vol. 2: The Night We Almost Got Mugged

I've long considered my 17 days in South Africa that opened 2002 as perhaps the most important time of my life. It was during my time there that I grew from being a child, found a closer connection to God, and learned of the beauties that can be found when you step beyond the barricades of home. Detailing the entire trip would take an extensive dedication that I don't have at this time, so I've decided to periodically archive a few distinct moments from my time there. Though this is my first entry since that inspiration, I actually detailed one of my nights in South Africa in a previous entry. Thus, we start with Volume 2. There may never be a Volume 3, but it sounds like a decent idea for down the road.

The day after September 11th (I have an adversity to the phrase "9/11"), I checked my dorm mailbox and found a thick, important-looking envelope donning a gold seal and coat-of-arms. The phrase within the emblem read, "International Mission on Law," and my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. Staring at that official stationary, I honestly wondered what they were gonna do with me. I couldn't believe that within 24 hours of those infamous attacks, my country was sending me into some mystery desert land to go find a pike for Bin Laden's head. I looked up for the helicopter that was about to abduct me, shave my head, and teach me how to throw a grenade as we flew over the Atlantic. My family would never see me again, either that or my mug would be on the cover of Newsweek under the caption "Savior" within a month.

Of course, International Mission on Law had nothing to do with September 11th or the armed forces. Four months after receiving the letter in the mail, I was in JFK Airport on my way to South Africa. I found my terminal and my group, 37 college students from around the country, invited to travel to another continent and see how the law works there. We were all strangers, but by the time we sat down for our first African dinner (after a 97 hour flight), social groups had been structured, and friendships were beginning to emerge.

The unappointed leader of my group was a bearded, husky 20-year-old named Big Papa Smurf. He attended New College in Florida, an institution I had paired with images of eccentric hippies who wore purple dinosaur outfits when playing ultimate frisbee. I got this perception from my best friend Jerk, who said when he played against the New College ultimate team, one of them was wearing a purple dinosaur outfit. As for Big Papa Smurf, while he didn't pack any costumes, he certainly was jolly, outspoken, and marched to his own beat. A few anecdotes:

1) He screamed I'm gonna fucking kill you! to another student when he wanted to see if the guy could show a mad face. He said this in an international airport, four months after September 11th.
2) At a crosswalk he got into a sprinter's stance, darted away from the group, and proceeded to chase a bundle of 50 pigeons. He did this at rush hour in the government district.
3) He chased pigeons a second time, this time passing his camera to our guide and requesting an action shot.
4) He used the phrase, woopty fuckin doo! when he got bored.
5) After spotting a movie camera filming on the beach, he ran after the cameraman and then chased the actors. The director had to cut, at which time he returned to the group.

Big Papa Smurf made traveling the globe a continuing adventure in his life, and he always did his research on whatever country he was visiting. Since he had come to South Africa with all this knowledge, he asked our tour guide one evening if our clique could be dropped off in downtown Johannesburg rather than return to the hotel. Though hesitant to release young Americans loose in one of the most crime-ridden spots in the world, Peet cracked after only a few hours of Big Papa Smurf's pleading, reasoning, and yelling. The bus pulled over onto a curb, and 11 of us were left to explore the nightlife of downtown Joburg.

From there we cluelessly wandered the blocks (picture the we're-not-quite-in-the-shady-parts-yet portions of any downtown in central/south Florida), searching for a nice place to dine. Once we found a place to eat, we shared a two-hour feast of 6 appetizers, 11 dinners, and 2 bottles of Rose wine. We paid $66... total. And believe me, we definitely got our $6 worth.

This was one of the best parts of South Africa: Americans can live like kings there. I'm not sure what the conversion rate is now, but at the time you could get an off-the-market BMW or Mercedes for $500. Everything there was ridiculously inexpensive. To this day I'm considering investing in a home there should the financial opportunity arrive.

We found our way to a bar across the street, and after a few more bottles of wine and shots of various liquors, the girls convinced the guys to go to a club. We stumbled our way into unlit streets and could feel the seediness rise a few notches. The guys walked on all sides of the girls because 20-year-old Americans think that the Flying V is full-proof. When we finally spotted potential sites, we were faced with two choices. We picked the one without shattered windows.

After maybe a half-second in this club, I figured out that either we had wandered away from the real clubs, or South Africans suck. Walking through the entrance I inhaled more cigarette smoke than the fetus inside Britney Spears. You expect a club to be dark, but the dim lighting in this warehouse seemed more out of necessity than effect, like someone was behind on their electric bill. The dance floor had maybe 10 people on it. And the music: part B-side techno, part 2002 Top 40, part 80s hair band... I was a "Barbie Girl" away from throwing my glass of Amarula at the DJ.

We were all light drinkers at the time, so eventually the buzz faded enough to where we realized we didn't have to stay in this dump. We called a cab company to pick us up. In the meantime, the girls continued to smoke, drink, and burn the desolate dance floor. My friend Dan and I waited just inside the front door until our cabs arrived.

When our taxis reached the curb, Dan and I stepped outside to tell the drivers that our group was on its way. We made our way down the stairs, when out from the corner came one of the many beggars that raided downtown Joburg. He was frail and wiry, but what distinguished him from the other beggars we had encountered were his wife-beater top and thrift-store baby blue skirt. As routine for beggars, he began to approach Dan as he pleaded for some cash. Dan, who carried himself in an almost saint-like manner, was happy to oblige and reached for his wallet. The beggar continued toward us, approaching arms distance of Dan, when from behind we heard the screamed warnings of a man running our way.

No no no!

The man running our way was decked out in security guard gear.

Get away from them!

The security guard ran through me and Dan and shoved the beggar about 10 feet. Almost tackling him to the ground, the guard then lifted the beggar's skirt so his two handguns were in full display (by the way, you're allowed to carry concealed weapons in South Africa, so at this point he's done nothing wrong). My social psychology professor was right when he said that when confronted with someone carrying a weapon, your entire existence momentarily lives to focus on that weapon. Combined with this being my first encounter with guns since my childhood friend was killed in a gun accident the previous summer, I couldn't act. I just stared at this homeless man's underwear, two killers held in by a dirty, eroding elastic band.

I woke up when another friend yelled from behind, hey, are those our cabs? I told him to go get everyone and we'd be on our way. Meanwhile our beggar was still standing there, recovering from his mini-rumble with security. But then a funny thing happened:

The security guard just walked off.

Dan and I were still there, the beggar was back to within 15 feet, and the security guard crossed the street and went back to wherever he had been. What the hell was he doing? Did the beggar tell him he'd leave, and he was gullible enough to believe it? Was his policy only to give Americans a warning, then say ok hot dog eaters, you're own your own? Did he not expect two guns under the skirt and had to go change his uniform? Whatever the case, I now stood in a world crime capital, unprotected, facing an armed man who wanted money.

Free to do what he chose, the beggar continued toward me. By the time my group was exiting the door, he was within 2 feet of me. I looked in the direction of my group, avoiding eye contact with the beggar, and waved everyone toward the cabs. As they came down the stairs, I could feel his cold stare into my face. He reiterated that he really needed some money, that I had to help him.

I stared through his pleas and rank breath as Dan and I got our blissfully ignorant crew into the cabs. Though I remained calm and ignored this guy, my mind was pleading, please everyone, hurry and choose a fucking cab before I get shot. After our 9 friends split into the two cabs, Dan went into one, as I walked toward the other. I didn't feel the pressure of the beggar against my back, but I wondered if that was because he had given up or he was waiting to get into shooting distance. I finally looked back as I grabbed the open cab door. The beggar was walking away, his back toward us, the guns moving the opposite direction. Everyone scrunched in for me, I closed the cab door, and the cab proceeded to go 95 mph toward our hotel.

I don't know what Dan did, but I didn't tell my cab for another 20 blocks.

Better Days

Atop the growing pile in my hamper sits a white undershirt with a light coat of mucus on the bottom-right side. Even after another restless night of tossing in my usually comfortable bed, I awoke this morning feeling like today could be the day, the day I felt better than I have in a while. The tops of my eyes didn't have the same ache, I woke on my own free will rather than from a coughing fit, and my voice only had a slight hint of my low-rough-and-sexy sick voice. Then I actually stood up out of bed. The pressure in my head rushed from out of nowhere, as did the sneezing fit that ended up on my shirt.

Ever since a surreal night in New York over a week ago, my body has been infested with little illnesses that have left me sick and weak for about 10 days. Between ridiculous amounts of class assignments, I've been here alone, trying to take care of myself and failing miserably. Perhaps not taking any medicine (except for nasal spray) and not sleeping has contributed to that. Or maybe I'm a 22-year-old guy who's trying to take care of a 22-year-old guy, not an ideal combination. I've never heard of large amounts of buffalo wings helping cure a cold, but I try it anyway.

A couple of times I've been lying on my couch, coughing into my clammy hand, and for a split second wonder how she would take care of me. This freaks me out, considering we still barely know each other, but I can't help but remember that moment when we went back to our table and I'd noticed all the sweat I had compiled on my face. She saw me trying futilely to wipe the sweat away with my designer shirt. She removed the bar napkin from the base of her Corona and gently wiped my face dry. I kind of stared at her the whole time, acknowledging the mutual chemistry we've just accepted is there. It's way too soon, potentially unhealthy, to allow that scene to pop into my head and wonder what could be. Yet as I sit here with a congested body, I'm just wondering how it's gonna be, and waiting to feel good again.

The Game

As my apartment is kryptonite to cell phones, I walked downstairs and went outside to talk to Rockhard. We were planning another one of my weekend trips to New York, joking about bukkake, you know, the usual. As I was saying something trivial to Rockhard, I was interrupted from behind by the voice of a female. "Hey!" was all she said.

As she walked past me, I recognized her as a girl I met a few months back while out with my best friend from college, Jerk. Always happy to see a familiar face, particularly an attractive one, I ask her how she's been. Apparently unclear as to how to answer that question she responds with, "What are you doing tonight?" Seeing that it's a Thursday in Harrisburg, I just got out of class, and I should be required to wear a sandwich board blazoning the word "dork", I follow with, "Nothing. I have no friends."

"Well, you're meeting us (she was with a similarly attractive friend) at Champ's after you get off the phone. See you there."

Rockhard hears the whole thing and tells me to get off the phone and follow her. Choosing to only give a hint of desperation rather than reek of it, I was in my car on the way to Champ's within 20 minutes. It only took maybe 15 seconds inside this sports bar to remember why I never called this girl back.

She was very nice, laid back, cute, and had a nice ass. But she and I have absolutely nothing in common. After the standard greeting questions, I had nothing more to say to her. The conversation had no direction. It was forced, cliche, and dull. I still have no clue as to why this girl not only twice offered to give me her number without my ever asking when we first met, but invited me out again on this night. There's no way she couldn't feel the blandness and incompatibility. Maybe she's hopelessly friendly.

I could've travelled one of two routes. I could've flirted anyway and seen if she was digging me, or I could've cut my losses and said goodnight.

I was home in time to get plenty of sleep before my drive to New York.

Something that I've learned about myself and have willingly accepted is that when it comes to talking to girls, I have no game, which in essence, is my game. I'm straightforward like I'd be with my friends. This isn't to say that I open the vault to the real me when we first meet, but what you get is a portion of the real me and not some character I've created to appear attractive. If I'm interested, I'll be genuine, ask questions about you, and figure out if I like what you're about. If I get the real you, you get the real me, and we have a mutual liking, then we'll have a real connection.

I'm not gonna throw random statements at you to impress you or give you want you want to hear. If those things aren't seen for the bullshit they are upon first listen, they will be uncovered eventually. I've tried to flirt for the sole reason of getting a girl interested in me, and I physically can't pull it off. There's some mechanism inside me that hears what my mouth is saying and essentially contorts in disgust. Maybe I'm not as good an actor as I thought.

I'm proud of the fact that I'm basically incapable of spitting out fake game. Having that talent couldn't get me anything I want of true value (though sometimes a nice set of boobs seems pretty valuable). I'm forced to present myself in an honest light, which in the long term makes things less complicated. What relevant thrill would I get from knowing someone fell for my game rather than me? I don't need confirmation from fake game to boost my ego. I'm sufficiently arrogant to do that on my own.

An Outlet

My ear has gone numb
from what my friends have become.
When does the therapist
get on the appointment list?
I've heard so many problems
that now I've made one of my own.

Jammed

I've never understood why there's always a traffic jam when two lanes have merged into one. No, I get that one lane of traffic must stop and put on their blinkers and wait for someone in the other lane to slow down and wave them in. Of course with everyone slowing down, stopping even, traffic will jam up. What I'm talking about, though, is after the lanes have merged into one. We've got a flow of traffic now, and there's no need to stop. There are more cars, sure, but if the car in front of the car in front of you goes back to the speed limit (or, preferably, 10 over), we can all get back to being on time to whatever stupid place we're trying to get to. Once we've merged and can all go in a straight, open lane, how about we all speed the fuck up? What are you putting your brakes on for? Dickhead.

I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

Now back in school for summer classes, I'm sitting in the back of the classroom, the butt of my professor's jokes, the horrible victim of being heard mid-sentence with something that could easily be taken out of context. Let's just say some of my new peers may think I'm a crossdresser. Let's also just forget that and move on.

I'm taking notes in the back next to a classmate who, though I don't know all too well, I get along with quite smoothly. We're exchanging quiet dialogue on and off throughout class, entertaining ourselves over the numerous dead spots that come with a three-hour lecture course. At one point she informs me that she's heading straight to the new Star Wars movie after class, a movie I have no desire seeing whatsoever. Actually, I can't remember the last time I was genuinely intrigued about a movie premiere (has yet to happen in 2005). She ignores my problem and goes on with her story anyway, about her slight anxiety with having to walk through the movie theater parking lot alone at night. She interrupts her own thought with a few words that stuck with me: "When you get to know me better, you'll see how much of a worrier I am."

When you get to know me better. Not if, indicating that maybe we'll get to know each other better, but rather when, as if she were stating fact. When you get to know me better. It's an assumption that I will get to know her better. She will get to know me better. We'll become friends. When you get to know me better. It's inevitable, right? After all, barring an unprecedented move where a student moves seats after the first week of classes, we'll be sitting next to each other an average of 6 hours a week. She's easy to talk to, very nice, and with our common interests, we'll have plenty to talk about. When you get to know me better. I have a future friend.

(And yes, I realize I'm talking about a she, and no, I don't forsee anything beyond a friendship, and yes, I'm naive to think nobody will develop a little crush, and yes, she's attractive, and yes, I'm really only looking for a friendship here, and no, I'm not shitting you.)

I look around the classroom and see other friends of mine dispersed in the room, and I'm not sitting by them. I'm next to a different person, switching it up, something I quite frequently do. When it comes to making friends, I'm both a chameleon and a drifter: a chamleon in the sense that it's easy for me to befriend many different types of people, and a drifter in the sense that I often trade off who I spend a great deal of time with. But I think the word friend is thrown around too liberally at times. I have friends, and I have good friends. For me, good friends are more long-term, multi-faceted, and unique relationships. My friends, as horrible as this may sound, can be replaced. My good friends are indispensable. If you're questioning whether or not you're a good friend of mine, the answer's simple: you're not. My good friends don't have to question how I feel about them.

One of my least favorite scenarios is the one where I realize that a mere acquaintance has been misinterpreted as being a friend. We've all been there. It typically happens when you spend lots of time with a group of people, usually in a particular social situation. Eventually for some reason, you're put in the position where you spend one-on-one time with one of them; it's almost always inadvertently, like your other buddies suck and cancel meeting up at the sports bar at the last minute because they have a paper due in 16 hours. Without the mediating group, your conversation with this person is quite awkward, and you realize you've really got nothing with this person if you don't have the other people. You've really only known that person through situation, don't know the actual person, and don't find reason to advance the friendship. It was a mirage of a friendship to begin with.

I couldn't care less (notice I actually used the phrase correctly) about those "associations". This is why I tend to stay out of groups and prefer to flock from friend to friend. I don't have much use for acquaintances that only fill one role. Why have a drinking buddy? Why not go drinking with a genuine friend instead? Why not go drink with someone who, if I suddenly get into deep-thinking mode, will stop and share a heart-felt conversation instead of limiting myself in what I can comfortably do with my acquaintance of the night? Versatility is vital to me in a friendship. I get bored easily. Each of my true friendships are unique, unlike the others, and offer something intangible I couldn't get from other people.

I'm an excellent good friend, the type of good friend people consciously appreciate, but am not as great a (just regular) friend. My nomadic ways when it comes to spending time with friends has probably inadvertently hurt a few people along the way. I mean nothing by it. It's just that there are so many people out there, and I often find something I like in almost everyone. No matter our background, color, or personality, we've all got redeeming qualities, and I'm sure we could find ways to have a good time and enjoy each other's company. I'm easy to get along with and easily get along. When you get to know me better, you'll agree. When you get to know me better.

Italarican Vacation

I'm getting an incredible reward for finishing up my first year of grad school: the family is coming up. Here's the part where I'm supposed to either comically typecast my parents and sister as caricatures or vent about all the fights we've had, but the truth is they're pretty normal people. We have a great relationship, all get along splendidly, and I've never had a serious fight with any of them. Ok, the "pretty normal" part is a lie-- we're all eccentric Italians and Puerto Ricans-- but it's all relative when compared to our, well, relatives. Besides, our weirdest pasttimes, like opening the high school yearbook and pointing out the ugly people, are done as a group. We'll be together for 8 days, in Harrisburg and New York, so I'll come back with plenty of stories and about an extra 10 pounds.

So I'm off for the week, like anyone even cares. In the meantime, here's a shot of my namesake: My newly born second cousin, Anthony. The sexy beast holding him is my cousin, Gerard. Most people cry or "aww" over pictures like this. Me, I can't stop laughing. Sometimes shit's funny beyond explanation.

Another New York Trip

The last trip I made to New York was a little different than my usual trip of getting drinks with friends followed by a wholesome day with insert-relative-here. I had a primary goal in mind: to find Hubbard a good time. My entertainment, my drunkeness wasn't of top priority. I wanted to personally help my best friend find some lovin and happiness. This was a guy who, in a matter of weeks, broke off his engagement, almost died from a ruptured appendix, heard his father had melanoma, and lived with a roommate who would giggle in the bathtub with his boyfriend through all hours of the night. That last part has been going on for a year, but it also set up the perfect greeting you'd want when you're just getting out of the hospital.

I sat around the apartment with Hubbard's non-tubbing roommates waiting for him to get back from acting school. Laying in plain view under the sofa was a magazine of movie stills of topless actresses. I knew this was Hubbard's because when he was recovering from surgery he constantly called me with one of two questions: 1) Hey, what's the name of the song that goes nah nah nah nah nah? or 2) Hey, I can get you any naked scene an actress has done. Who do you want?

I think they used a booby double for Jessica Alba. Anytime they don't show face and boob in the same shot I raise an eyebrow, among other things.

Rockhard and Mike had warned me about what to expect with Hubbard, and after a few minutes of us hanging out, I knew the weekend would not go as I had idealized. I wouldn't say that Hubbard was milking his scar and pain for everything it was worth, but he still seemed shellshocked from the past month. Combined with being a bit of a primadonna, he clearly wasn't ready for the things I had set for him. It also didn't help that the girl I had coming from Florida to "visit" cancelled at the last minute. Just as well, he wouldn't have been able to handle her in his condition, and I guess she would/should have a say in the matter too.

A very surreal hour passed by where Hubbard was ranting to me about various topics such as clashes with his father and searching for the meaning of life. He said everything you would expect from a introspective, drunk, high actor... only Hubbard was completely substance-free and wasn't trying to sound smart. After Hubbard said he had to get up early the next morning (dick), Mike and I met Rockhard at a jazz club 8 blocks from the apartment (another reason for me to move to New York). Rockhard was mildly drunk, having just paced the streets of New York with ale in hand after his show that night failed to be picked up. Considering he's already been in 3 shows-- this latest one on Broadway-- since moving to Manhattan 3 months ago, I'm afraid of how he'd react if he had the luck of the 99% of other actors out there.

A cute Czechoslovokian woman was tending to our table. She had one of those constant smiles where you almost think she's shit-faced drunk, until you just realize it's a personality thing. That can either be alluring or excrutiating. In this case, attached to her accent, it was alluring. I freely allowed Rockhard to work his charm after she clearly expressed an interest in him. She was mocking his non-alcoholic pepsi and leaning into his arm like a slutty eigth grader. The rest of the night was non-eventful other than that the music was awesome, the calamari was a bit overcooked, and Rockhard got some Czechoslovokian digits.

The next night my cousin Maria called me about a party at this bar called Jake's Dilemma, $25 all-you-can-drink. While this sounded like my kind of deal, I wondered how I would talk Hubbard into going. Considering that he didn't want to drink, had little money, and was being a total diva, I expected I would need to use those talents I supposedly should have brought to law school to get Hubbard out there. I got him to make one of those deals where it seems like I'm compromising, but I get my full way because I know how the night will turn out. One of those classic "we'll go, check it out for an hour, and if you're still feeling shitty, we'll leave" deals that never ends that way.

We arrive at Jake's, soaked from the rain, and scope out the scene. Rockhard and I complain about the lack of cute girls and head off to pre-break the seal. When we return from the bathroom, it's as though all the cute girls had followed us in (we weren't even wearing Axe). Mike and Rockhard point out a cute blonde. They look for consensus, we declare her cute, and don't do a damn thing about it. I look over and spot a very attractive girl, don't give a shit about consensus, and don't do a damn thing. This is standard routine.

A few gin and tonics later, we're hanging out with Maria, who's definitely cool enough to keep my friends entertained. She's also very New York Italian, very loud. When I got off the phone with her hours before, I was about to tell Mike where Jake's was, only for him to go, "Oh I know. I heard the directions your cousin gave you." I was 15 feet away from him at the time.

I'm figuring Hubbard now has enough incentive to stay the rest of the night and consider trying to find him a girl. I'm a total giver when it comes to these situations. I'd rather see my friends find a girl than succeed with one of my own. It's part genuine selflessness, part insecurity from fear of rejection. Either way, I knew I'd feel great if I helped Hubbard find some lovin. Before I can ponder the situation any further, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and I like what I see.

Very attractive girl from before is asking me if I realize that my coat has been rubbing against her for the past minute. Honestly, I had no clue she was behind me, and I'm no voyeur. Initially I'm not sure if very attractive girl is pleasantly telling me to scoot or if she likes me, so I continue talking with her to evaluate the scene. It becomes very clear we have a mutual attraction here. A hip hop song I can't recall plays over the system, and she asks me if my friends and I dance. Rather than answering, I take very attractive girl's hand, leave my white rhythmless friends, and invite my latin hips to the party. My "total giver" reputation takes a slight hit.

We have a great time dancing, checking each other out, and discovering that we're both totally awesome. Eventually a Britney Spears tune comes on. She says, "Sorry, I can't dance to this. Want to come over to my table?" I obviously do. We walk back to her old table, and she has one friend sitting there. I recognize her. It's the cute blonde, and there's a guy sitting next to her: my buddy Mike. Here we were, two friends with two friends, both with girls we had pointed out earlier, oblivious to the fact that they had come together. No role of wingman was necessary, as we were both genuinely interested in the girl beside us. Mike would later tell me, "The funny thing is, I was completely soaked, hadn't shaved for three days, and was just standing there holding my friend's coat. I looked like ass. I was just relieved they weren't psychos."

The rest of the night was incredible. My first outing with my cousin since she turned 21 was a smashing success, and I'm sure she took note that I managed to live up to the reputation my other cousins had unfairly set for me. He ain't just the quiet one, kids! Hubbard had agreed to stay for an hour, but we didn't leave until some time after 3. He wasn't even being a primadonna about it. I was proud. As we went to sleep that night, Rockhard complained about how Mike and I found some girls and he didn't.

"Whatever man, you've got the Czechoslovokian waitress waiting for you," I bitched.

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Hey this weekend was pretty cool."

May Flowers

It must be the end of April, the end of spring semesters at universities nationwide, because that season has come where I have lots to say but little time to speak. I know we're getting close to summer because I just wrapped up my spring courses, and my friends back and Florida are talking about graduating. They're in a position I felt a year ago, wondering how bittersweet the commencement will feel, what they will do next, if life will slow down outside of Gainesville, who will prove to be long-lasting friends.

A year later, I can say that all those questions get answered, but new questions develop. I wonder what things about my former life I took for granted, if I'm happier now than I was then, how my friends have changed, how I've changed. These in turn lead to new questions I tend to ask myself at this point. How will it be when I stop questioning where my life is going? When will it truly hit me that I've slowed down? When will I stop caring about my appearance? Will I be more depressed, relieved, or happy when I find the answers?

I usually ask these questions around this time, don't figure out the answers, and put them into storage for a year while I return to my routine of burning my palate by eating the food as I cook it. I'm so damn impatient.

Doorstep Notes

Two years ago I had a surprise at my apartment doorstep when hot sorority chicks had chalked across my sidewalk things like "I love my men from the Panhandle!" and "U Rock my World!"

Tonight I had a surprise at my apartment doorstep when in a small tupperware bowl were baked goodies with a note: "From Tom and Ethel, Thank you for helping with the microwave."

How things have changed.

In Low Places

I had gone up to New York knowing my best friend Hubbard would not be there, leaving me and the other guys to entertain ourselves. On previous occasions I had hung out with them. I met Rockhard and Mike back in Pensacola, and Avery was always around whenever I'd make the 3-hour trek to the greatest city on Earth, but our times together were always with Hubbard. Hubbard was not only the mutual friend, but also the connection. I didn't know these guys outside the Hubbard context, and I knew this weekend would give me a better idea of who these guys are to me.

... by the time I awoke at noon to Rockhard still coming up with ways to stick the word "bukkake" into everyday vernacular, I knew I enjoyed these guys with or without Hubbard. It only took one night of booze, music, and talks of bukkake. Hubbard was no longer the connection. We had our own.

On each drive back from New York I'm planning my next trip up. At first it was for the family and the city. Now it's also for the friends. Many of my favorite people in the world now live in that city, people I would be proud to introduce to my family, though my family already has blood relations to many of them. They're people I can show all my sides to. Everyone from Emotional Anthony to Obnoxious Asshole Anthony can come out uncensored to these friends.

It's something I feel missing in Harrisburg.

My ultimate prediacament in Harrisburg is meeting people like those in New York, people I can be myself around while also getting a lot in return. With my schedule and unfamiliarity to the area, the only people I've tended to meet are the people in my program. With a small program, you're supposed to create a tight-knit group. You can relate to each other, have some preestablished common interests, and can provide support for each other, because you've been there (or rather, you are there).

However, when I step outside the classroom, the last thing I want to talk about and surround myself with is the subject matter that encompasses my every aching study hour. My academics and my work are not my life, and I never want them to be. I love too many things on this Earth to have my life summed up in a single subject. But the easy way to make conversation with people you know little about is to talk about the little that you actually know about each other; in this case, we all relate to each other's experiences in clinical psychology.

The problem is, if you rely on a single crutch to guide conversation with someone you barely know, you never get off, and in the end, you still know very little about the person.

I'm not saying that I don't use the crutch; I talk about clinical psychology every day too. I'm not saying that my complexity is unique; I'm sure 99% of these people have substantial lives our studies can't come close to simplifying. What I'm saying is that I spend most of my time with these people, but they're not seeing the true me. They're giving me only one side of them, and I give them only one side of me. The setting we're in promotes that, and the setting is most of what I know in Harrisburg.

I'd say there's only one person in Pennsylvania who sees the real Anthony. I'd like there to be more. I'd like to figure out a way to change that. In the meantime, my next trip to New York is in 3 weeks.

You Wouldn't Know Just by Looking, but...

... minutes later my friend Ninny would rub his ass on this guy and repeatedly scream, "My bum is on Tom Green! My bum is on Tom Green!"




... she performed my favorite concert of all time.




... this shot perfectly summarized the end of our relationship.




... it took me 5 hours to stop laughing, then I took this picture, then I finished shaving.




... we're all grabbing our crotches.

Easter Sunday Recap

6:14 am: I wake up to the tune from The Godfather, my cell phone ring. This interrupts a dream I'm having where I'm dry humping this girl I knew from high school. I hope I'm hallucinating. If I'm not, someone better be dying.

6:15 am: The floor beneath me goes 6.0 on the Richter scale. I know my 260 pound uncle is charging toward my room. Someone better be dying.

6:16 am: On the phone is my best friend from home, Hubbard. And he's in the hospital.

6:23 am: Hubbard is in the ER for the second time this weekend. They think it's his intestines. He's in a room with his ex-fiancee. Guess the Easter Bunny shit in his basket. Special chocolate.

10:35 am: I decide to get out of bed, crack my bones, and say morning to my Aunt, Uncle, and cousin Maria. I expect my uncle has already devoured the bacon. Turns out they waited for me. That's love.

11:29 am: I'm wondering how much it cost to produce that pointless samurai skit on The Surreal Life 4. I'm also wondering if the cast got free dvd copies, if Chyna is doing coke off her copy right now, and if Mini Me can fit his Mini Me into the little hole in the disc.

11:46 am: I'm shocked at how much Flava Flav's mom looks like Foofy Foofy in drag. Maria decides that this makes her the ugliest woman in America.

12:05 pm: The hospital tells Hubbard that they think his appendix manuevered itself to the other side of his intestines, which is apparently serious enough to require emergency surgery. That's what he gets for not going to Easter mass.

12:19 pm: That's the Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ra-anch! Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ra-anch!

1:17 pm: We arrive at my aunt's mother's house for Easter dinner. I'm not blood related to this side of the family, and I've never met most of them before, but I know this: when an 88-year-old Italian woman makes you dinner from her kitchen, you know it's gonna be nothing short of damn mouth-watering good and will require flexible pants.

1:18 pm: I pour my first glass of wine.

1:25 pm: Most of the family hasn't arrived yet, so we play this 12 minute audio cd of this guy talking about the good old days of growing up Italian.

1:26 pm: I'm trying to give my uncle the benefit of the doubt, that his eyes are watering because of the oven smoke, but we all know what's really going on: The voice on the cd has barely reminisced about the days of waking to a fresh loaf of bread on the front porch, and my uncle is already crying.

1:31 pm: I pour my second glass of wine. Maria is on the same page.

1:46 pm: The final bunch of family has arrived. Maria's cousins are in their twenties. For someone who's grown up with their cousins either 10 years younger or 15 years older, this is a relief.

1:47 pm: My aunt's sister Ro comes to me with a supersized bottle of Shiraz, the biggest I've ever seen. I don't know where she got it, but she was JFK Jr.'s personal assistant until, you know. It's all about connections.

2:00 pm: The first batch of eggplant parmagiana is on the table. The cousins do not wait for the rest of the food to arrive. I pour my third glass of wine.

2:01 pm: My mouth hits my fork. I could die a happy man.

2:49 pm: We're all slowing down and feeling the stomach pains. Maria's cousin Tom spills merlot all over the table. Not a glass, mind you: whole. fucking. bottle. I stand up after 5 glasses of wine and bump into the nearby coffee table. Did I mention I'm meeting most of these people for the first time?

3:05 pm: I decide to lay off the wine, but I'm still thirsty. I grab a coke. I haven't gone to the bathroom yet.

3:41 pm: Ro tells some hilarious stories, one ending with, "Oh, and Travolta likes men. Trust me.". I think this is the first time I want to hang out with someone who used to have a crush on my dad.

3:58 pm: Hubbard calls. He's supposed to be in surgery right now, but he's on the phone with me. All I can understand is...

4:00 pm: Yeah menn, they joost gayve me the mornfeen. Iz gooooooood.

4:05 pm: Cheesecake, coffee, two glasses of water, and more wine. I'm worried that I don't have to pee.

5:11 pm: Ro: What did you give up for Lent?
Me: The word "fuck."
Ro: Woah fuck! That's gotta be fucking hard.
Me: It fucking was.
Ro: I couldn't fucking give it up.
Me: Fucking straight.
Ro: Fuck.

5:28 pm: My uncle is sitting in a recliner, rubbing his belly, complaining, "My God, I'm fat." Everyone in the room thinks, "You're just realizing this now?." Maria's cousin Lauren is the only one who actually says it.

5:45 pm: My aunt is screaming various stories about everyone in the room: how Andrea followed a tow truck an hour out of town because the driver looked like this guy she knew, how Lauren received a 600 dollar bar tab while in Jamaica, how Maria had her credit card bills sent to her home address hoping her parents would just pay them off. Each story is insanely loud, and it becomes a contest of who can speak the loudest. I'm now drinking wine for the hell of it. Maria is still on the same page.

6:26 pm: Text message from my friend Rockhard: bukkake is where the heart is! It's at this point that I rememember that it's Easter, and I wonder if this is what Jesus rose for.

6:43 pm: Maria passes out in a chair. I still don't have to pee.

7:05 pm: My cousin Christina arrives from a trip to Florida. Her cell phone got ruined at Islands of Adventure because she left it on her during a water ride. Then she forgot it in the hotel room. For some reason everyone keeps giving her shit about it. I have another glass.

8:22 pm: I enjoy a 1 minute, 32 second pee.

8:47 pm: Hubbard is out of surgery. His appendix had ruptured a year ago. They remove a toxic mass the size of a grapefruit from his abdomen. They've been telling him for a year he was probably lactose intolerant.

9:07 pm: Maria's boyfriend and friend Joe come over. Joe does everything dramatically and with a lisp. I think he may be gay. Then he sees Eva Longoria on the screen and goes, "God she is so fucking hot!" I think he may be straight.

9:45 pm: Maria, boyfriend, Joe, and I are in our seats to see The Ring II.

9:47 pm: I realize how annoying high school girls are when 3 sit in front of us. I also realize I'm getting older.

11:45 pm: It would have probably helped if I had seen The Ring. It also would have probably helped if I didn't have a case of wine in my stomach and brain.

11:59 pm: My uncle is on the couch, snoring loud enough to tear off the wallpaper. His finger is slightly up his nose. I decide Easter is over.