Michael and Nala

On January 23, 2001, eight months before the tragedy of 9/11, we had a disaster in our own community. That morning, my friend and neighbor Michael left for Manhattan to work at his film editing machine. That machine and his incredible talent had won him an Emmy award.

Unfortunately, the ever present cigarette in one hand, and the constant cup of coffee in the other, in conjunction with the stress of a high pressure, sedentary job, were too much for his 48 year old heart. He never came home.

He had been a live action amalgamation of the cartoon, "Tennessee Tuxedo and his Tales." With the hair and the brains of Phineas J. Whoopee, a mustache that looked like Chumley's tusks, and the wit of Tennessee, Michael was unique.

He left behind a wife and five children, the oldest a freshman in college, the youngest a fourth grader, and finally, a dog, Nala.

Though Nala had been a Christmas gift for the kids in 1995, it was Michael who could be seen walking her late at night, cigarette and cup of coffee in one hand, leash in the other. Occasionally, they would stop by the house at night for "a viewing." His work schedule was so crazy, a "view" was all you could hope for. He would come in, and despite my mild protest about Nala, she would come in with him. I'm a pet person, but there was something about Nala that I didn't like. Perhaps she was too big, I'm a small dog person - I just don't know. Michael's answer to any complaint was simple: "Love me... Love my Dog."

For the first few weeks after he died, Nala would lie by the front door whimpering, crying for him to come home. Then she took up her position as a watchdog for Michael's widow, very protective, always alert. The two of them mourning, side by side.

Last Sunday, with a tumor the size of a grapefruit and her quality of life slipping away daily, Nala was put to sleep. She was thirteen years old.

Now - I think about Michael all the time- sharing stories with friends and family- but when Nala died, a flood of memories came back. These memories seemed to be universal on our block. As if Nala was a link to Michael and we were losing him all over again. There were lots of tears on Sunday, many for Nala, but strangely many more for Michael.

Since Sunday and Nala's passing I have started to look at our dog Sidney differently, wondering if he is a link to us. I ask myself "What does he know? What does he think?"

Michael would have made fun of this internal conversation of mine. But then again, he's the one who said "Love me... Love my Dog."

Sidney Augustus Torre

OCO3

A couple of years ago, I was sitting talking with my cousin. She was complaining about her two younger sisters. According to them, anything and everything that went wrong in the world was her fault.

Now, when speaking to this particular cousin, I am usually doing a good impersonation of someone listening. In reality, I am screaming in my head for her to shut up. Complaining is her default postion and there is only so much I can take. But this time something clicked, and I heard myself say, "Yeah, I have the same thing with my two younger brothers."

We spent the rest of the night comparing stories and shocking each other with the similarities in our existence. I thought it had more to do with birth order and family dynamics. She stayed with the theory that her sisters are just plain nasty. Before that night ended we had formed OCO3: the society for the Oldest Child Of Three. A place where the abused and over-blamed, first born come together, commiserate and comfort each other. We have four members in our chapter: my mother, myself, my cousin and my eldest. The problem, of course, is there are at least are eight people in our family who work against the organization. And sometimes the attack is so baseless and so unhinged, all you can do is remember what OCO3 has taught you.

I had one of those moments yesterday. While speaking to one of my brothers--a person I speak to on the average of four times a day--he informed me that I never listen to him. Nor do I "treat him like a human being." Under normal circumstances, I would have lost my temper. But the core rule of OCO3 stopped me from going crazy.

That rule simply says: Mom and Dad were older, clearly their genetic material was starting to degrade.

If anyone is interested in starting an OCO3 chapter, please let me know.

Also, Mr. Moose is making a Thanksgiving prediction: an uncomfortable time will be had by all.

Two Bros Rappin' in Beantown

In response to the question, "What's going on with your blog?" My answer was, "I don't want to keep writing about the election." That wasn't the purpose of the blog, I never want to read a single-focus work, so it stands to reason that I'd never want to write a single focus work.

As the final day to the endless campaign draws near I found a topic to share. And it has only a little bit to do with the election.

This past Saturday, I spent seven hours in Boston. The majority of the time was spent with my best friend and our time together centered in or around Trident Booksellers and Cafe.
If, as Sartre implies, "hell is other people," then for me , heaven is the Trident. It has books, great food, and a thousand different conversations all creating the soundtrack to whatever movie is showing on one of the flat screen TVs hanging over the counter. When I first went in City Lights was playing, a silent film classic. With no dialogue, the soundtrack of the store fought against the images on the screen. This was a bit disconcerting.

Then my friend came in and our conversation added to the mix. We spoke about the election, about "The West Wing." Off the air for two-and-a-half years, it still is the best education in both the power and powerlessness of the presidency. As always we touched upon events that are currently shaping both of our worlds. Work, money, family, a normal conversation between two people whose lives have be intertwined for almost thirty years.

The Trident was filled with flyers advertising the all-day election coverage that would be broadcasting on Tuesday,from the TVs currently showing Chaplin. The flyers were the best example of the home-grown mania that is gripping the nation. The main flyer featured a picture of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin. I hope the coverage on election night will be half as entertaining.
We left the Trident and, as we walked and talked, my friend a long time resident of the area, kept up his streak of being unable to identify any historic landmark in Boston. To any question, his response was the same. "How should I know?" or the annoyed "Take a tour!"

Hours and many conversations later, we returned to the Trident for coffee and dessert. We sat at the counter right in front of a TV. Ghostbusters was starting. No sound, just the thousand conversations. As our conversation a fairly intense one continued, we watched Bill Murray's smirks and looks of shock that made him famous. We laughed and remarked how everytime we saw Murray it made us think of our college friend Jim.

As our seventh hour was coming to a close it occured to me that the election that had occupied so many of our phone calls from "The Garden State" to "Beantown", had played only a minor part of our time together.

While driving home I felt that essense of our day was going to be a common one in America after next week. Certainly on Wednesday there will be a great cheer from one group and a cry of agony from another. One of the men running for president will begin the transition process toward taking office. While the other will begin the transition process of defining a new political future. But once the cheers and screams fade we will all be more focused on our conversations about work, money and family. No longer will we be distracted by the constant coverage, the unending verbal malstrom of point counter point; no matter how entertaining it can be. We will have a new president-elect. And everyone will be waiting for him to take over, waiting for him to make a difference. History suggests that that is not always possible. But we gotta believe.

That belief isn't baseless either. Men have picked up the reins of office and helped America refocus herself. And I think this is why we vote. We are always hopeful, always optimistic about tomorrow.

I still feel this entry is not about the election. It has more to do with us, and our best friends and our families and everyone sitting at the Trident and all the places like it across the nation.