Okay, let me tell you about my wife — well, a little about my wife. It certainly isn’t the whole story. Now, on July 17, 1996, flight TWA 800 — a passenger flight on the way to Paris — exploded in mid-air, killing all 230 people on board. It was unbelievable because I had just gone to Paris on business less than a month before on, of all flights, TWA 800. We went via New York because our incredibly fucking cheap division manager saved money. The only catch was that we flew into Strasbourg, France, first and then on to Paris in a puddle-jumper, changed in the bathroom and went on to meetings without even going to the hotel and showering. Well, at least we fit right in there from a hygiene perspective. But I digress. Let’s fix that.

While we were watching the whole tragedy unfold on television, Beth turned to me and said, “You’re never flying again.” Actually, I hated flying anyway. It’s not my travel method of choice, so it didn’t bother me that she felt that way. But that was then. Now, my wifey wants to be a pilot. She and I are generally at the kitchen table until all hours of the night on our computers. I’m usually writing and she does a variety of things, including playing Flight Simulator. I bought her an incredible joystick for Christmas and she flies at least once a day. But if she were to fly for  her own airline, it would have to be named Grim Reaper Airways.

Let’s talk about Strike 1. Beth has chronic pancreatitis, type 2 diabetes and severe iron-deficient anemia that has forced her to be transfused 3 times and iron infused 5 times since 2004. The doctors suspect she’s bleeding from somewhere, but they can’t find it. We’re working on the final test to rule out the GI tract. Then, the testing moves on to the OB/GYN.  (In fairness, let me say that these illnesses aren’t self-inflicted. That’s another incredible story I’ll tell later.) She also has panic disorder and PTSD from a youth full of abuse from her father. Yeah, apparently God was speaking to dad through Walter Cronkite and telling him to do this foul, evil stuff. That’s a different story for a different post. My point is that there’s no way in hell that she’s going to be given a pilot’s license. And that’s a good thing because Strike 2 is that she cannot land the plane to save anyone’s life.

I can’t tell you the number of evenings I’ve spent here laughing while she yells, “Ooh, I’m in a tree. Oh, hell, at least everyone’s alive and the plane isn’t destroyed.” I will tell you that Beth is great in mid-air and can resolve most problems. She just cannot land. She absolutely loves the Cirrus SR22 GTS. These are her exact words, “It’s very beautiful even if it spins out of control every once in a while.” There’s Strike 3. She covets a plane that likes to create adventure for the pilot.

She has indeed slammed into mountains. She has landed on the highway because she’s mistaken the highway for the runway. And when she does hit the runway, she comes down hard. Once her wheels got stuck after landing. It was ugly, I’ll tell you. I love it when she says to me, “Hell, just think. When we finally do succumb to fascism here, I can fly us all out.” No fucking way.  We’re already under a form of fascism. I’m alive. I’m staying.

Remember the name: Elizabeth Della Piana. If she does manage to sneak through the system and become a pilot, don’t get on.

You know, most of my friends consider me “gay from the womb.” I’d have to agree with them. The old saying ‘women need men like fish need bicycles’ would be accurate for me. I’ve got to be the oldest person in America who has never been with a man in the biblical sense, and I like it that way. Thank you. And here’s the answer to the next obvious question: No. I do not need to have been with a man in the biblical sense first to find out if I’m gay.

I do not want to give the impression that I don’t like men, however. There’s more to men than sex. I’ve always had a lot of male friends — in fact, more male friends than women over the years.

However, there were many tell-tale signs that I was a lesbian from a very young age. Oh, yes, I believe that these things can be deduced if you look for the right signs. Here were some of mine:

- I cannot remember how old I was, but I know my dad was still alive so I had to be younger than nine. I got a lifelike doll for Christmas. It was like the giant Barbies that were flooding the stores when my daughter, Thalia, was about five or six. I was one of the first kids to have it in my neighborhood. However, by the end of the day, the damned thing was buck naked and being shot off my rocking horse with a dart gun. A sure sign.

- Playing “doctor” is a normal thing, but I was playing doctor with all the little girls in the neighborhood. Another sure sign.

- The only guy I ever ‘dated’ (it was a dance, by the way) while in grammar school was a big fag, and I was comfortable with the fact that this particular relationship was going nowhere. I suspect the same was true for him.

- I did go to the high school prom…with a gay guy. It was a blast. We made our little appearance at the prom, then headed for a gay bar. I’m not sure how we even got into a gay bar, but I do know that my escort was older than us (I was only seventeen). I suspect he got us in. Can’t argue with that tell-tale sign, can you?

Of course, when I was very young I really didn’t know what to call it. I did, however, know that something was different about me. Oh, like, instead of coveting other girls’ guys, I was coveting the guys’ girls. See how that works? That’s different. And I ‘m not going to say that I never ‘worried’ about it. I did. It’s tough to be different, a fact not lost on my own daughter even today. While she’s not a lesbian that I know of (she may be someday, who knows?), she is also not anything like the other girls her age.

However, by the time I was onto my next educational adventure (an all-girls school) I was over all that worry. There’s not much you can do but go with the flow. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It isn’t a lifestyle, people. It’s what it is.

Nothing is safe (or sacred) anymore. Two days ago, the blueberry scone became a weapon. I work at Starbucks and, to be sure, we have some great customers. But this is retail, and assholes abound. This week’s asshole was special.

I was working the bar and talking to a customer when this old bat came up to the register. She ordered a couple of drinks, and somehow indicated that she wanted to use a personal check. The shift supervisor calmly and completely explained that Starbucks no longer takes personal checks. Well, it really set this very unpleasantly entitled witch off. I was watching her body language out of the corner of my eye.

She was shaking her head through the entire transaction. She stamped her feet! Now, I can handle kids doing that shit. But this lady was no kid. She was just a mental midget. And she was not done yet!

Afterwards, she got a table and sat down. A few minutes later, she decided to take this thing to another level. She walked up to the shift supervisor and told him that the cashier had not charged her for the blueberry scone, and she had  no intention of paying for it. Did she think he cared? He was great. He looked her in the eye and just said, “Ok.” As the Brits say, that really got her dander up.  She couldn’t get to him, but he clearly got to her. That’s when the funniest part of the incident happened.

I didn’t see the whole of this, but I saw enough of it and was filled in by others. The shift supervisor went back to work and was engrossed helping someone out when this lady walked up to the bar and whipped a bag at him. Inside was a half-eaten scone. Had she stuck around long enough to see that he was completely oblivious to the whole event and that we were all laughing, she’d probably have blown the place up.

You’ve got to love the priviledged. It’s all about them. Isn’t it?

This is one for the books. It will show the folly of youth, and the incredible greed in which students engage just to have party money. More dough means more trips to the “packie” as we used to say. (Or, of course, two bags of Jamaican in those days.)

So, I graduated from Aquinas and it’s 1973. For lack of anything else to do, I enrolled at Bunker Hill Community College. I don’t even remember what I took, probably liberal arts because I was teetering between art and writing. [Of course, I ended up at Aquinas to begin with because my mother spent many days and nights trying to convince me that there was no future in either.] Anyway, this little Charlestown adventure — to a school where the most fun we had was throwing rocks at the water rats and then slamming the door shut before they went for your throat — lasted one year. In 1974, I’d join Millipore Corporation. That’s for later. That’ll give us 23 years of stories.

So, we’re sitting in the cafeteria at Bunker Hill on an unbelievably snowy day. It was really coming down. The drive had been treacherous. Then, after we spent all morning getting there, they decided to send us all home. Idiots. We were talking about the new movie, The Exorcist, when somebody asked for a volunteer to go see the movie alone. We all asked what was in it for us. The response was too good to resist. The ones who didn’t go to the movie would pool their money and give the volunteer $50. The volunteer would have to bring back the ticket stub. I took it. Little did I know that — this one event — would bring home to me just how incredibly powerful my Catholic education and brainwashing had been.

I drove in a raging storm into Boston. It was windy, the snow was piling up quickly and it was freezing. I was really happy to get inside the Music Hall parking garage. Back in those days, and in that weather, the investment was worth the payoff. I went inside and bought a ticket, carefully putting the stub inside my back pocket after going past the attendant. I was literally alone inside the theater. There were maybe 3 other people. That only made it worse. Here’s where I came out:

I was completely freaked out, scared to shit. You know, I read the book and it was bad enough, but seeing it on the big screen was horrifying. It was scary and outstanding, right down to the music. I know that the movie kind of destroyed Linda Blair’s career before it even got started, but she was brilliant in that movie. Actually, they all were, but she really stood out. She had so many ways of scaring the shit out of you: The flopping around on the bed so completely out of control; the levitating; the evil shit she said; the impression that she even smelled bad; and the bile colored puke were just too much for me. Those individual scenes were some of the most frightening I’ve seen on the big screen, and I’m a big horror fan. But it was the overwhelming reality that she was so completely in the control of someone or something so evil was the most frightening part of the movie. She wasn’t even a bad kid. She was benign. She did not invite Satan in. Even the image of Satan that they use inthe movie is exactly as I had envisioned him all of my young life.

I lived in Melrose at the time, right next to some railroad tracks. It was on the commuter line and the stop was called Melrose Cedar Park. I did a pretty good job after the movie telling myself it was just a movie. I went to bed normally that night, at about 10 p.m. because I had school the next morning and wanted to cash in — especially since I had psychologically screwed myself by going to that foolish movie. It was fine until about 11:30 p.m. when the first train went through…and my bed shook, as it always had. Of course, after The Exorcist, that shaking was a bit tainted. I sat bolt upright after coming out of a dead sleep and was terrified that my bed was shaking. I immediately jumped out of bed and turned on the light. After that, I slept with the light on for nearly four months. And I certainly did not go back to bed that evening. I turned every light in the apartment on, made myself coffee and watched television until I had to leave for school the next morning.

To this day, I can’t even bring the movie into my house. I tried renting it about four years ago and ended up leaving it in the trunk. I was convinced the next morning that I was going to be possessed as soon as I sat in the driver’s seat. I dropped it back into the drop off box on the way to work. Totally irrational, I know. But the nuns had me for fourteen years at that point and they scared the shit out of me. The worst thing was that they made you as afraid of God as they did Satan. That really sucks. No solace anywhere.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The little girl, Reagan, was using a Ouija Board at the beginning of the movie, and that’s when all the problems start. My Ouija Board went out in the trash the next morning…after I bent and broke it into pieces. I had that thing for years until that movie. Permanently scarred, I tell you.

Okay, I know you’re all probably getting whiplash, but we’re now back in the present just for a short time. I’m honestly trying to stay away from politics on this blog, so consider this a commentary on character.

I write on my own blog called Turn-Left, and I confess to being an unrepentant liberal. Recently, a few of my conservative compatriots became so irritated with my positions that they started infiltrating my blog. One of these clowns (for lack of a better word) decided he “wants to teach me a lesson.” Yeah. I don’t really know if he was expecting me to be impressed enough to become a myopic, rigid, religiously-driven conservative, but his type brings out the commie pinko progressive Democrat in me. [If the truth be known, I'd be a card-carrying member of the Green Party if I thought they had a chance in hell of winning. Their platform is spot on for me.]

Now, these conservatives aren’t really bloggers. They are just insulting name callers. That’s what they’ve done to me and the rest of the liberals on my blog. You know, the usual stuff: “militant homosexual” (because I dared to say that everybody should be able to marry whom they want; it’s guaranteed in the U.S. Constitution), “anti-American” (because I believe that nobody should be tortured in any form in any war, and that George W. Bush should be indicted for war crimes), and “God-hater” (because I firmly believe in the separation between church and state). Since then, Joker has said that he’d enjoy a burger and beer while he watches me being waterboarded. Know what? Fuck him. How’s that. There. Feeling better. So, let me get to my question.

How is it that these true believers, these patriotic Christians (by their own definition) can square up their religious beliefs with their support of torture and illegal wars that are doing nobody any good. Our soldiers are dying. More than a million Iraqi civilians (read: The people we are supposed to be liberating) have died, and another million are displaced refugees. It had nothing to do with “freedom.” It had nothing to do with protecting America. It was all about oil.  I’m curious about that. See, it doesn’t work for me. I’m a Catholic by birth, but a Buddhist by choice. (Long story. We’ll get to it some day.)

The Buddhists simply do not “do” violence. Buddhists in Tibet won’t even pick up arms to liberate themselves. They are abused by China, yet they won’t hurt others even to free themselves. The Dalai Lama has to live in India because the Chinese will kill him if he returns to Tibet. (He escaped from there in 1959.) Every year at the center I sporadically attend, they spend hundreds of dollars to buy lobsters from food stores and return them to the ocean. To some, this sounds stupid. However, the Buddhists have a great spiritual respect for the planet and all living things.

To be perfectly honest, America claims to be a peace-loving nation but that’s not the way the numbers go. In fact, the U.S. has spent more time in war than in peace. There are only two of those wars that were justified — WWI and WWII.  Not Korea. Not Viet Nam. Not Afghanistan. Not Iraq. None of them.As a result, I’ve begun to fulfill the requirements of dual citizenship with Canada. Should my children want to fight for the U.S. if we are threatened or under attack, I support that. However, my children will never fight in an Iraq- or Afghanistan-style war.

These conservatives are, simply put, hypocrites of the tallest order. They wouldn’t know Christianity if it hit them in the face. They simply use God’s name to justify what they do and what they support. And, by the way, did you know that the commandment “Do not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” has absolutely nothing to do with the swear “Jesus Christ!” It has nothing to do with that. What it means is: Do not use God’s name to justify the evil things you do. I got that right from the mouth of a Bishop.

Anyway, that’s it. I’m done. They’ve taken up enough of my positive energy for today, and I feel much better now. Thanks for putting up with that.

Harvard Square was a favorite hangout. There was no place in the world like it. I’m not talking about the sanitized version of Harvard Square that’s there now. No sir. Harvard University owns Harvard Square now, and it shows. I’m talking about the Harvard Square that had a great restaurant called Grendel’s Den. The place was just great. It had a lot of Middle Eastern specialties on the menu and the prices were great. It had the Coop. And it had a club called Jonathan Swift’s. It was the only place of its kind, and it’s now long gone. Harvard Square is but a mere shadow of what it used to be. It had its own unique personality and character. People would talk about Linda Ronstadt getting her start at Passim (a coffee house) and going over to Elsie’s to get a great roast beef sandwich. Many of those places are gone now, but they’ve left behind some great memories.

Jonathan Swift’s was to the left of The Garage (which is on the corner of JFK and Mt. Auburn). You’d go in the door and down some stairs. The bar was named for an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer (for both the Whigs and Tories), poet and cleric. He is remembered for works such as Gulliver’s Travels and A Modest Proposal.

Now, back to the place. There was nowhere else like it anywhere. It wasn’t just a bar. It had a stage and offered live music. Nothing special about that, but the atmosphere was great. Some of the bands that played there were Stormin’ Norman and Suzie, Chuck MacDermott & Wheatstraw, and John Lincoln Wright & The Sourmash Boys.

My friends and I saw John Lincoln Wright there more than once. This time it was the dead of winter — don’t ask me to remember the year. They were already on stage when we got there, so it was pretty dark, but I could have sworn that the woman across the room near the piano was Bonnie Raitt. Of course, I immediately got distracted and forgot that I thought I saw her.

Well, I remembered it a while later when they brought Bonnie Raitt up on stage to sing with them! It was just awesome. She did maybe two or three numbers with them and went back to sit in the audience. I can’t remember exactly what she sang, but it was around the time of the Sweet Forgiveness album, I think. It was great to see her in that kind of venue, smaller and more intimate. We’d all become accustomed to seeing her at what used to be The Music Hall (now the Wang Center). And, yes, she wailed on that slide guitar.

Anyway, that was a great time. And now, it’s time to go celebrate. The Red Sox have slugged their way into first place in the AL East. By the way, where the F#@* is Manny these days?

I spent more than eight years involved with Miss Headcase, and not many of them were positive. This fact is just testament to both my perserverence and stupidity. She had her problems and we’ll get into some of that later, but for now the first trip we took together was one for the books. It was to Newport, Rhode Island. The first thing I remember — and it’s absurd — is that we both just bought new sneakers and it was pouring rain. We walked around with plastic bags on our feet.

I remember that I took Friday off and we headed down early in the morning. We had reservations at a place called Cliff House, a really beautiful bed & breakfast run by two elderly lesbians. They were really so sweet, and the place just had so many twists and turns, like a hidden staircase. On the very top floor, there was a common kitchen where you could cook dinner if you preferred staying in. We did that the first night we were there. You could climb out to a balcony through a window in the kitchen. The view was just unbelievable.  I can’t find the place anymore. I’m sure it’s under new ownership but I really cannot seem to match the memory to anything I can find on the web. It’s been a long time. The place was called Cliff House because it was right near Cliff Walk, of course, a beautiful mile-long walk overlooking the Atlantic. This was a walk you should not miss even in the dreary weather. We held off until the second day.

The second day, Saturday, was the best. We got up early and ate breakfast at the inn, then we walked downtown for a while and visited the shops. We had lunch at the Brick Alley Pub (and this place is still there). Then we headed toward Bellevue street and toured the International Tennis Hall of Fame. We went to a few of the mansions, the most opulent and absurd was The Breakers, the summer home of the Vanderbilts. The place had hot and cold running sea water or fresh water for the baths. I think it had something like 70 rooms, and it was a summer home only. That’s fucking crazy. I can’t remember where we had dinner that night. It could have been La Forge Casino on Bellevue. That restaurant would be a favorite of ours and it would figure in a later trip to Newport. Just wait for that one. We were driving back  on Sunday, so we were in early Saturday night. The funniest thing happened Sunday morning.

Sunday was just beautiful. The sun had returned on Saturday, but Sunday was really bright. The night before, the place was buzzing because two people from Rolling Stone magazine had checked in. The guy was pretty notable, but I cannot remember who it was all these years later. All I know is that it wasn’t the sun that woke us up that morning. Apparently, the two writers from Rolling Stone had spent the night together — in a room right next to ours, and now they were engaged in wanton sex.

They were so loud it was hysterical. We could hear everything they were yelling. They were moaning; she was shrieking. We were laughing so hard we had to put the pillows over our faces. This went on for what seemed like hours and we just couldn’t move. Every time we thought it was over and we stopped roaring, they’d start up again. I mean, wtf were they thinking? This was a b & b. The place was old. The walls were thin. I’m willing to bet the whole freakin’ place heard them. I could imagine the entire place with people hiding their faces under their pillows that morning, just roaring laughing.

We wanted to head back early on Sunday because I had to be back at work early Monday morning. Our last visit was to Brenton Point State Park and a trip down Ocean Drive where people hang out and fly kites all day in the summer. The International Kite Festival is held there in July. The colors and images are just beautiful. It was a great ride that morning with the sun so bright. After that, we headed back to Boston.

That was the first time Miss Headcase and I went away together. The relationship was new; things were great. It was very romantic and a wonderful time. There was absolutely no hint of things that would to come several years later.

Again, living in the present…for this morning at least. Did anybody catch the story about the Texas couple who found Jesus in a bag of Cheetos? No, if you haven’t heard about it, I’m not kidding. This is really a WTF moment. Something as absurd as this could only happen here, really. Think about this happening, say, in Jakarta. You’d never see it. I’m not quite sure what that says about us, and I’m really not quite sure if I want to know what this says about us.

Needless to say, the Cheesus Christ Cheeto has found it’s way onto ebay. You knew that was next. I confess that I just don’t get it. I mean, when I find things like this, why can’t I see Jesus and cash in? Oh, wait, I’m a Buddhist. That could be it. Or maybe I’m just not that twisted. Yeah.

This also confirms that Texas should just be allowed to go on and secede. Let’s face it. This is also the state that gave us George W. Bush. Let it go. Democrats will probably be outlawed, so we’ll take them. No problem. Then Texas can rejoin Mexico and get back to its roots. It’ll be good for them. And us.

I went to Texas on business once, and it was quite an experience. I mean, these people were, well, unique. That’s all I can say. Very impressed with themselves. You know, The Lone Star State. The bar at the hotel lobby was a fascinating vantage point for people watching and I spent hours there. I felt like I had been there for hours the next morning. I couldn’t even remember what I drank, but I drank a lot of it. I only went to Texas to help set up the show, so I did that the next morning and immediately got on a flight and came home.

I have a feeling there are a lot of Cheesus Jesus finders in that state. Beware.

This blog spends a lot of time looking back, but I’ve still got to live in the present which is not always an easy task. On the mornings I’m not at Starbucks, I’m the one who gets up at 6:00 a.m. to get the kids off to school. I usually give myself a fifteen-minute advantage so I can shake off the sleep. Got to be alert and upbeat with these two on a Monday morning. Neither of them enjoy school, and Monday mornings are the absolute worst.

Anyway, I had two thoughts this morning that I want to share with you. First, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have: Gas is creeping up again. Now, I’m paying $2.23. That would be less a problem if I were not traveling 72 miles a day, but I am. So, I was thinking how great it would be if I had a Port Key on my patio. All you Harry Potter fans know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. You know like the boot that took them to the Quiddich World Cup. That kind of Port Key. For those who don’t really know what a port key is, click here. All will be explained.

Now, I’m sure it would be embarrassing at the beginning. You know, the sight of me making a thudding entrance in the Walkers Brook parking lot would be entertaining to be sure. But I’m sure with time I’d be able to make one of those more dignified walking-style landings like Mr. Weasley. People would hardly notice me coming out of thin air.

I don’t have problems with motion sickness. I was always the master of the roller coaster and the round-up at Nantasket Beach. I can handle the spinning thing okay. And just think of the gas and time I’d save. I’d be able to hang around here and write longer (faster transport time than a car), and absolutely no need for gas. I’ll take it.

It was after this initial thought that things got wierd. I happened to be watching Death on the Nile on Beth’s computer while I write on mine. The nastiest character in the movie (and also the victim because of her shitty attitude) is named Lynette. For some crazy fucking reason, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme came into my head. Anybody but me remember her? I was thinking what a three-time loser she is. Think about it for just a minute.

First, good old “Squeaky” was once a member of a dance group called the Westchester Lariats, and she appeared on the Lawrence Welk Show and at the White House. If that isn’t enough, she’s also a former member of The Manson Family. If Lawrence Welk doesn’t make you a loser, hanging out with Charlie Manson definitely does. You’d have to be short on gray matter to pay homage to that weasly little rat-faced git. Life in suburbia and membership in the Lariats must have really sucked and she had to be desperate for something, although I’m not quite sure what.

The ‘third’ part of the three-time loser thing is not just that she failed to kill Gerald Ford, but that she chose Gerald Ford at all. Gerald Ford? Why, man? Yeah, okay, it was infuriating that he pardoned Tricky. That didn’t make me happy either, but the important thing is that we got rid of Tricky. We held him accountable and he paid the price. (We don’t bother to do that anymore, by the way.) It wasn’t necessary for old “Squeaky” to take it to that extreme.

After this last thought, the kids took over and all thoughts left. I know there was another messed up thought coming over the horizon, but maybe it will make it later. We’ll see. Until then, I’m going to prepare myself mentally to serve coffee and various treats to the entitled masses. Have yourselves a good day.

Anybody remember that old SNL skit with John Belushi and Bill Murray about the the friends that overstayed their welcome? It was actually called “The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave,” and John Belushi was the flagrant friend. It was hysterical. Well, it actually happened to me back during the eighties. To make matters worse, I was also in the middle of one of those very bad long-term relationships we lesbians sometimes get ourselves into. Her name is Miss Headcase to you.

I had a friend named Margo that became good friends with Miss Headcase and I. Margo and I worked together. She was a product manager and I was the marketing services manager responsible for her product’s promotion program. I shit you not that every single problem this girl ever had was a result of the slug she called her boyfriend. This guy was a dirtbag. In fact, we’ll call him Mr. Dirtbag. It doesn’t get any more accurate than that.

He basically lived off Margo. This guy simply didn’t work and it wasn’t because he couldn’t work. He was a drunk and a coke head who had already spent time in The Tombs of New York. The problem was that he was as engaging as hell and you could really have a great time with him. What money he did end up with, he was generous with. In other words, he was hard to dislike.

One time I suggested that we all go up to the Saratoga Performing Arts Center to see Emmylou Harris. She is one of the few country performers I really dig and it’s because she pushes the envelope like few have before her. I got hooked and then got them hooked. They thought it was a great idea. We drove up in separate cars the night before and stayed at a place called the 1811 House in Vermont. I know the place is still there and I also know it has changed hands since then. I remember the suite that Margo and Mr. Dirtbag rented. It had a spiral staircase up to the bedroom, and a fireplace in the living area.

Mr. Dirtbag was in rare form that night. The coke was everywhere and the party went until the wee hours of the morning. We had a blast. I remember thinking it was a damned good thing that the concert was not until the following night. We needed time to recover because we had to go from Manchester, Vermont to Saratoga, New York for the show.

However, time had passed for Margo since that fun event. The times were interspersed with too many days and nights of living with Mr. Dirtbag’s antics. Sometimes he would go on benders and disappear for days. Other times, she couldn’t get rid of him. She decided that she’d not be there when he returned from New York this time. That’s when she asked if she could stay with us for a few days while she found another place to live. Of course, Mrs. Headcase and I thought it was a good idea for her to get out and we readily agreed.

Here’s the problem: The days turned into weeks and months of camping out on our sofa. She turned the living room into a bedroom. It looked like a bomb hit it every day. If that wasn’t enough, Tommy was trying to hunt her down. He only had a cell phone number and did not know where she was…yet. However, by now, her apartment was gone and she had no apartment to move to.

As time passed , Miss Headcase decided this was my fault. You know how that works, it’s the old guilt by association thing. Margo just happened to be my friend before she was our friend. Get it? The added tension wasn’t helping my own relationship much.

The only saving grace was that Margo had periods of extended travel. I was in the middle of such a break and it was mid-week, so I decided to knock off work early and take the next day off. When I walked in my apartment door about an hour later, Mr. Dirtbag was sitting in the middle of my living room with none other than Margo, who had finished up her trip a bit early.  So much for peace and quiet. And so much for peace, love and understanding.

I was working on my final exposed nerve. All I needed to see every damned day was Mr. Dirtbag lazing around my apartment NOT WORKING and getting fucked up all day. I mean, I certainly was a party animal, but there was a time and a place for everything. “We’ll be out by Friday,” was all she said. My reply was simple. “No. You will be out by Thursday, which is tomorrow.” I remember vividly what I said next, “Hotel Della Piana is now closed.”

That was it. I didn’t see them for the rest of the day, and they went out for dinner that night. We didn’t hear them come in, but I know for sure their stuff was still there when I went to bed. Miss Headcase and I slept a bit later the next morning because I took the day off. By the time we got up, the living room was empty. They were gone. Just like that, after weeks and months of tension, it was over and done with.

There was still the little matter of working together. Was it uncomfortable? Oh, yeah, in the beginning it definitely was. Time took care of that though. It eventually settled back down into a friendship of sorts, although not like the one before she camped out at Hotel Della Piana. In a year, she was gone from the Company. She came from the New Jersey shore and I hear she got a job that allowed her to return there.

Several years later, I’d run into Margo again. But that’s a different story for a different day.