tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20798027346681785062024-02-20T02:41:27.631-08:00Queasy WriterNavigating the detours and back roads in my life as a teacher, writer, parent, and other (not-so-secret) identitiesRocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-65455099906605768902018-11-19T12:46:00.000-08:002018-11-22T11:25:39.410-08:00GOTV<br />
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“Who you looking for?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I turned from the door I had just knocked on. Parked at the
curb in front of the house was a pickup truck, and sitting in the passenger
seat was a young African-American guy. I told him the name of the woman that
was on my sheet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“She’s at work.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You know if she’s planning to vote?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nah, I don’t think so.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I left a couple of doorhangers on the knob and walked toward
the truck. “How about you,” I asked. “Are you going to vote?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t seem to change much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was not a conversation I imagined for myself when I decided
to volunteer this election season. This conversation was, in fact, the furthest
thing from my mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But let me back up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometime early in 2018, I told myself that I was going to do
something more for the midterm elections than just vote and fume at the news on my
phone or TV. I wanted to contribute—money, time, whatever—instead of sit on the
sidelines and maybe wonder on the morning of November 7<sup>th</sup> if I could
have done more. So in September I came across a group via Twitter—“Flip the 49<sup>th</sup>
– Neighbors in Action,” which was mobilizing efforts to turn my congressional
district from red to blue by getting Mike Levin more votes than his republican
opponent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The people there were amazing. Lots of energy, and not just
from the young men and women who did the bulk of the organizing, but also from
the rank-and-file workers, many of whom were retired and spending the
equivalent of a full-time job in the office, on the phones, or on the streets
knocking on doors. It was a broad-based coalition that included various area
union members as well as a passionate group of suburban women who were members
of “Moms Demand Action,” a group committed to stronger gun control laws. At
every turn, I was inspired by the spirit of activism and the dedication to
devote one’s time and energy toward positive change.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, though, I had a few simple rules. I would do whatever
they needed, but I would NOT make phone calls and I would NOT knock on doors. Need
voter IDs to enter? Say no more. Need something moved? I’m your guy. But
interacting with strangers—about an election, of all things, and in a nuclear
environment, no less—was not something I was going to do. No how, no way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps you can see where this is going. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the face of the raw energy and enthusiasm of these
people, my stupid rules didn’t stand a chance. And I’m glad they didn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On my second day volunteering, our organizer, a young woman
named Elizabeth, asked if I would call a few people to try out the new phone
system. There were others willing to do this, so I passed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On my third day volunteering, she asked if I would call a
few people to let them know about an upcoming canvass. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fuck it</i>, I thought. “Sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I left about twenty phone messages until I got a real live
person. She was excited, totally on board, but had recently moved to Florida. I
asked if she was voting for Gillum and Nelson, and she said, “You better
believe it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next real-live person I got told me that she had been
writing postcards for Katie Porter (who at this writing was just declared the
winner in the California 45<sup>th</sup> race) and making calls for some
Democrat Senate candidates around the country.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The conversations continued, and the people I spoke with
were either doing other things—sometimes A LOT of other things—with various
elections or wanted to do more. Nobody yelled at me. Nobody hung up on me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next step was canvassing—knocking on doors. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll give this a try, but I’m going with someone who’ll do all the
talking</i>. So, at my first canvass, I teamed up with a guy named David, who
had done this before. And after a few doors and conversations, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can do this</i>. So I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let me say this about knocking on doors. The first few are
the hardest. That is, the first few people <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you actually talk to</i> are the hardest. The fact is that you knock on
many, many doors with no response. But eventually you get a door where someone
answers. My early conversations were awkward, to say the least. I started
from a place where I felt that I was imposing on them, wasting their time,
selling them subscriptions to a magazine or some equally lame product.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But the thing is, that feeling came mostly from me. Like the
phones, nobody yelled, nobody slammed the door in my face. Their demeanor noticeably
changed when I identified myself as a volunteer. I guess when you meet someone
who’s using his or her weekend time to knock on doors, the least you could do
is listen. What powered me through was the simple fact of what was happening:
two citizens having a conversation about our democracy. The campaign’s plan was
to target low-propensity voters, and the reason for this wasn’t simply to get people to vote for
Mike Levin in this election; it was to get people to vote (hopefully for
progressive candidates) in all future elections. It was about welcoming people into the democratic process, about letting them know that they had a voice
and showing them how to use it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then suddenly it was election weekend. So what did I do?
Sign up for four straight days of canvassing, of course.<o:p></o:p></div>
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All told, from Saturday to Tuesday, I walked over twenty-five miles, knocked on
probably close to a thousand doors, and had over a hundred conversations with
people. Not only did it not suck, it was actually fun. A few highlights:<o:p></o:p></div>
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A young woman who thought she was in some kind of trouble, but was visibly relieved and then pleasantly shocked to find out that I was just there to make sure she was going to vote.<br />
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A mom and daughter who saw Flip the 49<sup>th</sup>’s
coordinated freeway sign drops, were impressed by the fun everyone seemed to be
having, looked up Levin’s positions when they got home, and had already voted
for him by the time I knocked on their door the night before the election.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A Spanish-speaking grandmother who wasn’t planning to vote
with just a couple of hours left before the polls closed. My canvassing
partner, Sandi, and I implored her to vote, especially since her polling place
was just around the corner. Her daughter appeared at the door and translated
for us, joining our call to get out and vote. Sandi—a grandmother herself—told
her that she was knocking on doors so that her grandkids had an environment to
enjoy. We watched as the daughter and her mother went back and forth, and even
though I don’t speak Spanish, I could tell that her resolve was softening as
her hand came to her chin and she said “<i>Donde esta</i> <i>something something</i>.” Her daughter smiled at us and said, “I think
she’s going to do it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not every encounter was great. One house had a Levin sign
propped up against it, half-hidden behind a bush. The woman on my list wasn’t
there; her boyfriend or husband answered instead. When I gestured to the sign
and said, “Well, it looks like you’re Levin supporters,” he replied, “She
didn’t have my permission to put that up.” After a couple seconds of telling
myself how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to reply, I just said,
“Well, have a nice day,” while sending his girlfriend or wife powerful psychic
messages to tell him what he could do with his “permission” and dump his
knuckle-dragging ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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And then there was the young man in his truck who said that
he didn’t vote because it “don’t seem to change much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I recalled my training from the day before, about how this
was Get Out The Vote (GOTV) weekend and we had a lot of doors to knock on, so
the last thing we wanted to do was waste time in pointless conversation. The
objective was simple: confirm support for Levin and then help the person make a
voting plan. Anything else was time lost, and we needed to just move on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought about all of that and promptly ignored it. My role
as canvasser was pretty new to me and stood no chance against my over
twenty-five year role as a teacher. I wasn’t about to just move on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I explained a little bit about voting. Not about how you
register or absentee ballots or where and when you do it, but about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">voting</i>. About how that simple action was
anything but simple for many people for most of the history of this nation.
About how men and women, white and black, young and old, were cursed, spat
upon, beaten, and even killed so that every citizen of legal age
could cast a vote. About how not voting disrespects that long history of
sacrifice and struggle. And about how many of the people in power are thrilled
beyond belief that he—this young man sitting in his truck—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doesn’t</i> vote. In fact, they count on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He nodded thoughtfully, and I’m not fool enough to believe
this was much more than him being polite to some privileged, crazy old white
guy. I asked him his name, told him mine, shook his hand, and said that I hoped
he would reconsider his position on voting. As I walked to the next door, to the next
potential voter, I thought of Jack Nicholson’s line in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest</i> after he fails to lift an
impossibly heavy marble fixture and hurl it through the window so that he and
the other inmates can go find a bar and watch the World Series: “But I tried,
didn’t I? Goddammit, at least I did that much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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All in all, my experiences guarantee that this wasn't simply a 2018 Midterms thing for me. I'm in for the duration, for as long as we have elections. Democracy is a funny thing. We speak of it in very
high-minded and abstract language, taking its endurance for granted. But it
doesn’t just exist. It needs a lot of care and attention, and it’s one of those
things that if it’s neglected, it will die—a lot more quickly than you would think.
And on the surface, maybe the position that voting doesn’t “seem to change
much” sounds true, but it’s not. The greater truth is that while the Wheels of
Change turn slowly—sometimes excruciatingly so—they do turn. But not unless we
put our hands on them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-12287246645965343552017-12-06T06:00:00.000-08:002017-12-06T06:00:24.512-08:00'Tis the Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ORalr6KeKf44hCWnmDr9iGxRkJ1Q-hzt5aZ3s5zZxW48eZEcHO1qplp19sgNV2J6CTuk8P99AxTrOoVTXF0L7IFlGT-_Nxf3WadBfDWpqpwPnCwpYlBZf66zqs8CqjC0PohQ5N5f_vas/s1600/Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="482" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ORalr6KeKf44hCWnmDr9iGxRkJ1Q-hzt5aZ3s5zZxW48eZEcHO1qplp19sgNV2J6CTuk8P99AxTrOoVTXF0L7IFlGT-_Nxf3WadBfDWpqpwPnCwpYlBZf66zqs8CqjC0PohQ5N5f_vas/s320/Santa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Well, it’s that time of year again—the festive lights shine
bright, the holiday music pumps out over every available sound system, and a
familiar early-December refrain greets my ears on at least a twice-daily basis.</div>
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“I really need to pass this class.”</div>
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With final exams and the end of the semester bearing down on
them, many of my students are now in full-on panic mode. The Reckoning is here,
and all the missed classes, botched quizzes, and
didn’t-bother-to-do-the-readings are knocking at their doors.</div>
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In all honesty, I never gave much thought to my students’ “I
really need to pass” before; I would typically dismiss it with a shrug or an
offer to go over their grade with them. But I’ve been thinking about it more
and more lately, and I have a new response that I can’t wait to try out.</div>
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“Why tell me?”</div>
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There’s a big assumption underlying their statement that I
can’t ignore. When they tell me that they need to pass my class, what they’re
really doing is transferring the responsibility of their grade—of their <i>education</i>—over
to me. They’re saying, <i>You alone can pass me…please do so</i>. But I’m not
Santa Claus with a bagful of passing grades, and what they need to realize is
that I’m not the one they should be talking to. Instead, early in the semester
and then over and over again throughout it, they need to repeat “I need to
pass” to <i>themselves</i>. </div>
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And then act accordingly.</div>
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What does “act accordingly” mean? Here are a few
observations that may offer a clue: it’s never the students who show up every day
who say “I need to pass.” It’s never the ones who bother to read the material,
or who engage in class discussion, or who come to my office hours to go over
assignments, or who manage to stay awake and off their phones during class.
It’s the ones who mistakenly believe that the “opportunity” to earn a degree is
the same as the “right” to have one, the ones who think that simply having a
seat in the classroom is enough. </div>
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The fact of the matter is that the stakes (not to mention
the <i>costs</i>) of education are at an all-time high, and the margin for
error is slimmer than ever. Assuming a student can even complete a degree—much
more the exception than the rule for the underprepared multitudes emerging from
high school today—there’s still a job to find after graduation, and if you’re
saddled with debt, then that job had better be a pretty good one. But those
jobs are in short supply, and if you’re competing with huge numbers of
applicants, you’d better set yourself apart from the crowd with some important
basics, like having a strong work ethic and being the person who cares most
about your education. </div>
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So to any students reading this who have ever told (or
continue to tell) your professors that you “need to pass,” here’s a suggestion
for a New Year’s resolution: make sure you tell it to the right person.</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-9030002793336352392017-10-08T14:18:00.000-07:002018-04-03T11:11:29.025-07:00In Memoriam<div class="MsoNormal">
How do we handle loss? We’ve all felt it ourselves, or stood next to
it, or watched it unravel the lives of strangers. But what do we do with it?
Where do we put it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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In several of my classes this year (2018) and last (2017), we read Amy
Waldman’s 2011 novel, <i>The Submission</i>, a book that examines the depths of
loss and the tensions that arise in attempting to acknowledge and contain it.
The setup for the book is pretty simple: it’s two years after 9/11, and a
committee has been formed to select a winner for a nationwide contest to design
a memorial to those killed in the attacks. It’s a blind competition, so no one
knows anything about the designers until one is selected. The committee chooses
the winning design, and the designer is revealed. His name is Mohammad Khan, and
he’s a Muslim. Naturally, controversies unfold and lives are damaged--some irrevocably.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Amidst these controversies, several issues emerge, and our
discussions have tried to address all of them. For the purposes of this post, I want to focus on two: the complexities of public memory
and the purpose of memorials. Khan’s design—a garden laid out according to
rigid geometry—is meant as a public monument that will contain and reflect the personal memories and emotions of those affected. But given the plurality (and sometimes cross-purposes) of
these memories and the racial tensions in our society, the difficulties of this task become too much to
overcome. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet, these characters need to remember the dead, to
offer some memorial to them, to gain closure and begin to heal. In one scene, near the end, a character honors his dead father by placing a small stone cairn
in the corner of a garden. Waldman writes, “With a pile of stones, he had
written a name.” The gesture is minor but meaningful. It is, in fact, the only
real act of memorializing in a 300-plus page book about a memorial.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To connect more closely with the spirit of this character’s act, I decided that my students and I should create a memorial of our own—one that would be both individual
and collective. So I bought a couple of bags of river rock at Lowe’s, hauled them to class
in a bucket (nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process), and asked each
student to take a few and place them somewhere on campus in memory of
a family member, friend, or pet. After they found their spot and “wrote a name
with a pile of rocks,” they took a picture and sent it to me with the name of
the person memorialized. The rocks were meant to transform our campus into a
group memorial comprised of individual acts of remembrance. And because people or weather or time will undoubtedly unstack these rocks, the pictures were meant to make permanent our memorial (as only the Internet can). <o:p></o:p></div>
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So here I present the memorial created by my Fall 2017 and Spring 2018 “Introduction
to Literature” and “Critical Thinking through Literature” classes, a collection
of pictures, stones, names, and stories (these appear down in the “Comments” section of this post):<o:p></o:p><br />
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Barbara Ann Neely</div>
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Andrea Nunez</div>
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Amber</div>
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Milo Fantone</div>
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Grandma Kiki</div>
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Rodolfo De La Torre</div>
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Chase Butterbean Robertson</div>
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Grandma Susanne</div>
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Martin Lopez</div>
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Thomasa Butler</div>
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All the Victims of School Shootings</div>
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Oscar Sotelo</div>
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Corporal Adam Wolff</div>
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Grandma Eunice</div>
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Art Vogel</div>
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Teresita Lozaro</div>
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Danita Raminha</div>
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Dwayne Drakeford</div>
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Michael Kahl</div>
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Nancy Carrol Nolan</div>
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Grandpa Bill</div>
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Grandpa Daniel</div>
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Rylee</div>
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Nicacio Carapia<br />
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Jesus Gutierrez<br />
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Eileen Bender<br />
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Caliope Diacantaonis<br />
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Barbara Maple<br />
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Denise Delossantos<br />
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Grandma<br />
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Joseph Tamborelli<br />
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Haley Knoll<br />
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Elton Gregory Joseph<br />
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Virgilio Lopez<br />
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Barbra Racheck</div>
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Uncle Mike<br />
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Jesus Hernandez</div>
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Byeonghyeon Min</div>
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Cliff Wenzlick</div>
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Daniela Pereyda, Francisco Malfavon, and Muffy</div>
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All the people I can't forget</div>
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Anna Marie and Porter Meisland</div>
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Anthony</div>
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Burl Dean Ellis</div>
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Ascension</div>
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Brianna</div>
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Donnie</div>
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Darrell Von Driska</div>
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Lydia</div>
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Kitty Hart</div>
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John</div>
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Jimi</div>
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John Gillmore</div>
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Gloria</div>
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Eloisa</div>
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Doug Durrant (1st)</div>
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</div>
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Doug Durrant (2nd)</div>
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Homero Perez</div>
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Carlos Preciado</div>
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Martin and Kai</div>
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Lexi Dale</div>
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Mina Sabeghi</div>
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Pocahontas</div>
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Rajih Maida and Menum Barakat</div>
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Aunt Chansey</div>
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Adrian Avila</div>
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Ralph Richter</div>
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Rescue</div>
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Rosa Garcia</div>
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Mike Kinsella</div>
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Gerald M. Bloomfield II</div>
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Yaretzi</div>
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Olivia McClellan</div>
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Thomas Zielinski</div>
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Thomas Versaci</div>
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Tacu</div>
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Shaggy</div>
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Ernesto Edraisa</div>
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Finesse</div>
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Garland Ayers</div>
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Richard Peterson (Grandpa Pete)</div>
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Joy Smith</div>
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Wonderbread</div>
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Brendon Arce</div>
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Elsa</div>
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Victims of the Las Vegas shooting (1st)</div>
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Victims of the Las Vegas shooting (2nd)</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-7052083257134003332017-09-29T16:13:00.000-07:002017-09-30T15:41:59.750-07:00Nachoman Is Not Yo Man<div class="MsoNormal">
In Don DeLillo’s brilliant satire of
modern American culture, <i>White Noise</i>, there's a scene where two characters stand outside a popular tourist attraction, "The Most Photographed Barn in America." They notice that the photographers who gather there now do not take pictures of the barn; they take pictures of each other taking pictures. One of the characters says, <span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What was the barn like before it was
photographed? What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how
was it similar to other barns? We can’t answer these questions because we’ve
read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can’t get outside the
aura. We’re part of the aura. We’re here, we’re now.” The barn has become beside the point; all that matters now is </span>this “aura”—the noise<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> that surrounds the thing and not the thing itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I was reminded of this scene a few days ago, when my
Beloved Chicago Cubs opened up a four-game series against the Loathsome Cardinals in
St. Louis. Early in the game—the second inning, maybe—Cubs shortstop Addison
Russell dove into the stands attempting to catch a foul ball. He didn’t make
the catch, but he did manage to obliterate a plate of nachos held by a
Cardinals fan.</div>
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Like any play where an athlete manages to land in the crowd,
the announcers seized on this moment, and showed multiple (and I mean multiple) replays of the incident and its signature images: Russell launching himself
horizontally; the fan recoiling, face contorted, large plate of loaded nachos
precariously balanced on his left hand; Russell’s foot kicking said plate into
a cloudburst of chips and cheese.</div>
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At that very moment, the fifteen-minute clock started for
21-year-old Andrew Gudermuth, the owner of said former nachos.</div>
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What quickly became clear was that the announcers were much less interested in
Russell’s fearless effort—putting himself in harm’s way unnecessarily (it was a
foul ball and the Cubs were up 5-0)—than in the destruction of the nachos. It
made its way onto the Jumbotron, and the “evolution” of Gudermuth’s fame proceeded rapidly over the
next few innings. Some highlights:</div>
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<br /></div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal">Stadium
officials delivered a new plate of nachos to him (replayed on
camera, of course)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Addison
Russell delivered a new plate of nachos to him (also replayed on camera)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Gudermuth
took a selfie with Russell and posted to Twitter</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Gudermuth
changed his Twitter handle to “nacho man” (not sure if this was his
original idea or in response to the announcers use of the moniker).</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">The
hashtag #nachoman was born as people began retweeting this selfie</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Nachoman
made it onto the fan cam</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Nachoman
was interviewed about the nachos he received, at which point we learned
that the Cardinals-bought nachos were “loaded” while the Cubs-bought
nachos had only “a cup of cheese”</li>
</ul>
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During the 7<sup>th</sup> inning or so, as the Cubs
continued to soundly drub the Abhorred Cardinals, the announcers once again
checked in with Nachoman, whose fame had reached new heights (or lows,
depending on your point of view). </div>
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Specifically, people in the crowd were now <i>lining up to
take pictures with him</i>. In short order, these new pics started appearing on
Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and Facebook—all bearing the
by-now-trending #nachoman.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And at this point, my mind slowly formed one thought, and as
I picture it now, the words are being squeezed out of a red, white, and blue
bottle of nacho cheese: THIS IS WHY TRUMP GOT ELECTED.</div>
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Now I have nothing personal against Nachoman. He seems like
a perfectly nice guy. In his post-game interviews (yes, there were <i>post</i>-game
interviews, too), he seemed affable and a little overwhelmed by this moment of
instant stardom. In fact, his only apparent flaw seems to be that he actually
enjoys watching and rooting for the Detestable Cardinals.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But the lining up to take pictures with him was too much.
All this guy did that night was get a plate of nachos kicked out of his hand.
Is this the kind of “achievement” that deserves to be replayed and Tweeted and
lined up for? This naked hunger to touch “celebrity”—no matter how artificial
or empty—is an example of the same kind of mindset that can’t (or won’t) tell
the difference between authenticity and branding, between credible
anti-establishment behavior and serious character flaws, between a positive
change agent and a narcissistic, racist con man. </div>
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A mindset, in short, that’s too wrapped up in the noise, the "aura," to
notice the thing itself, which as far as I can tell is someone who thrives on making noise, and lots of it—the louder, more distracting, more divisive, the better. </div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-70240039877873064602016-12-11T09:37:00.001-08:002016-12-11T15:58:58.884-08:00Looking AheadI always feel a kind of heaviness at the end of the fall semester. Every year as it winds down, and as my students work diligently (I hope) on their final papers, projects, and revisions, I can't ignore the fact that it's the end of another year as well. With its shorter days and chillier air, December provokes sobering reflection on the previous months, and--like usual--I have very mixed feelings about this particular year. On the one hand, it brought some incredible joy--the publication of my second book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/That-Hidden-Road-Rocco-Versaci/dp/1627201335/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1481477296&sr=8-1&keywords=that+hidden+road" target="_blank">That Hidden Road</a></i>, for one, and the all-but-improbable World Series win of my beloved Chicago Cubs, for another. Yet there has also been the bleak political landscape and all the mess stemming from what has been--in my opinion--the most chaotic and meanest Presidential election of my lifetime.<br />
<br />
For these reasons, 2016 stands as a year I'll regard with much more ambivalence than normal. And of course, the New Year is an arbitrary point; the repercussions of the previous year always continue into the next. But right now, the fear and uncertainty is way too big to take on, so I'll concentrate on something a lot more manageable (and self-serving)--some upcoming events early in 2017 where I'll be reading from and/or signing copies of <i>That Hidden Road</i>. Sometimes all we can do is share a little bit of ourselves with other people in the hopes of making a connection, and it's in this spirit that I look ahead to these places where I've been given the opportunity to do so:<br />
<br />
On Thursday, January 12, I'll be at Anderson's Bookshop in Downers Grove, Illinois, at 7pm. For more info, click <a href="http://www.andersonsbookshop.com/event/rocco-versaci" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
On Sunday, February 5, I'll be at Warwick's Books in La Jolla, California, at 12 noon. For more info, click <a href="http://www.warwicks.com/event/rocco-versaci-2017" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, February 14, I'll be the featured author at the "Writers Read" program at the Fallbrook Library in Fallbrook, California, at 6pm. For more info, click <a href="http://www.kbgressitt.com/writers-read/" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<br />
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In addition to their intrinsic rewards, I've always found teaching and writing to be distractions from the sometimes oppressive onslaught of daily life, and I'm certainly hoping that they continue to be in 2017.<br />
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-88699573013263875802016-07-08T10:26:00.000-07:002016-07-08T10:26:59.223-07:00Thank You, Thank You, Thank You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5G5S64SkN24sv2VMV6LzAjDPjoueTSO84qMv-33kA1tRnQbASPK2Bp0PUW3VcmOc-5P84ErxkNhzeqKiEfl2KVbAjg7LsKab_LR7IzL0vzy7ja7RlAN6W17bNPTMj4T8E5yYOng4RY2ch/s1600/Book+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5G5S64SkN24sv2VMV6LzAjDPjoueTSO84qMv-33kA1tRnQbASPK2Bp0PUW3VcmOc-5P84ErxkNhzeqKiEfl2KVbAjg7LsKab_LR7IzL0vzy7ja7RlAN6W17bNPTMj4T8E5yYOng4RY2ch/s320/Book+Cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, it’s almost
here. In less than three months, on October 1st, my second book—<i>That Hidden Road: A Memoir</i>—will
be released. It’s the story of a lot of things (and I’ve excerpted parts of it
on this blog), but the framing narrative is the two months that I spent
crossing the U.S. on my bicycle. Incidentally, if you’re interested, you can
read the first chapter <a href="http://www.roccoversaci.com/" target="_blank">ON MY WEBSITE</a> and preorder the book <a href="http://amzn.to/20XJHRW" target="_blank">HERE</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s hard to put
into words what it’s like to hold an actual copy of this book; for me, doubting that it
would ever see the light of day became a twice- and sometimes thrice-daily activity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In truth, I
thought the whole thing would be a lot easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t mean the
bike ride. I knew that would be tough and it was. No, I mean writing this book.
Way, way back, I thought, <i>How hard could this be?</i> I blogged regularly
when I was on the road, and I kept a journal, too, so the book was pretty much
already written. All I had to do was string together the posts, add a few
things from the journal, do a little editing, and <i>ta-DA</i>…a book!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, it didn’t
work out that way at all, and I’ve been writing and teaching writing long
enough to have known better. In fact, I shouldn’t have been surprised to
discover that in every way except for physical strain, the riding was a lot
easier than the writing. It certainly took a lot less time. I’m reminded of
something I wrote very late in the book, something about being incredibly
innocent or stupid or (most likely) both as I stood on my bike, Rusty, at the
beginning of the ride with no real idea of what I was getting into.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Turns out, that’s
a pretty accurate way to describe writing a book, too. Not a single word
written, and all those pages to go…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The truth is that
I wouldn’t have gotten through either journey without a lot of help from a lot
of people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
First, the ride.
Deep thanks to everyone who helped me along the way—the people who stopped to
see if I was all right or needed anything, the people who housed and fed me,
the people who read my blog and left a comment or two, and the many people who
just saw a guy with a ton of crap on his bike and decided to talk to him for a
few minutes. All of them made a lonely endeavor a lot less so. I especially
want to thank the people who were a big part of my trip but—due to the
mercenary demands of storytelling—didn’t make it fully into the book: Brian and
Angie McNeece; Eileen and Richard Travis and family; Jody and Dave Travis and
family; Dave and Pamela Craig; Paul Winer; Daniel Young; Tom and Stanna
Galbraith; Jake Heath; Karen and Jeff Wilson; Ron from Boulder (I never did get
his last name); John and Sharlene Sampson; Bill Haddan and family; Alan White;
Lance, Michelle, and Christian Freezeland; David and Erin Anthony; Eddie West;
Christine North; and Chris Nielsen.</div>
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Special thanks to
Jan and Bill Montgomery, who were the perfect guides through the “heart” of
this journey, and to Tom and Ann McConnell, who were the perfect guides through
the “tail” of it.</div>
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Thanks to all my
family and friends who helped me recharge during my Chicago “intermission”: my
brother Vince, his wife Jean, and their kids; my mom and dad; Pat Gonder and
Teresa Aguinaldo; Jerry Karlin and Karen Klebba; Paul Sternenberg; Marc
Kaplanes and Julie Hubbard. And a special thank you to Greg Hart for the dance
and plane ticket (two separate things).</div>
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And the ride would
have been possible but a lot harder without the work of whoever created the
iPhone apps for “Track My Tour” and “Warmshowers,” so thanks, Anonymous
Programmers.</div>
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Along those lines
(and as regards the book), I owe a big debt to whoever created and maintains
Google Earth and Wikipedia; both were instrumental when my memory or
perspective failed, or when I needed to find out something about Dodge City, or
the Irwin Cobb Bridge, or the Tennessee Valley Authority. I’m also indebted to
Elliot Willensky’s <i>When Brooklyn Was the World</i> (Harmony Books, 1986) for
helping to add a little color to my dad’s memories.</div>
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Big thanks and an
even bigger hug to my favorite geologist, pseudo-sister, and dear friend Suzy Gonder, who
patiently answered all my questions about rocks and geological time.</div>
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A big thank you to
Lawson Mabry, who closely read and reread the sections about his family and its
history and has offered nothing but hospitality and encouragement to me since I
met him. Thanks also to Brian McNeece and Erin Anthony for their generous and
rigorous readings of an early draft of the book. Big thanks to members of my
Palomar family for the same: Barb Neault Kelber, Deborah Paes de Barros, Jack
Quintero, and Carlton Smith. My colleagues are, quite simply, the best, and I’m
also grateful for the friendship and encouragement of Leanne Maunu, Andrea
Bell, Teresa Laughlin, and Jenny Fererro (to whom I might still owe a Clif
Bar). And thanks, too, to my other readers: Pat Gonder, John Lucas (who also
helped with the comics), and Colin Rafferty.</div>
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In terms of
reading, I owe quite a bit to two assistant agents at two different
agencies—Jennifer Herrera and Lena Yarbrough—who gave me invaluable notes that
resulted in a much, much better final version.</div>
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Special thanks to
Robert James Russell and the editors of <i>Midwestern Gothic</i> for publishing
sections of this book. Many thanks to Hannah Krieger and the editors of the <i>Georgetown
Review</i> for the same.</div>
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A big thank you to
the good folks who run the San Diego Book Awards for honoring my work at a time
when I needed some encouragement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Huge thanks to
Kevin Atticks, Alexandra Chouinard, Nicole DeVincentis (and her infinite
patience with me) and all of the other hard workers at Apprentice House Press
for their support, insight, and direction—all of which helped turn my dream
into the reality of the book.</div>
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Thanks, too, to my
Aunt Angie McConnell, who provided stories and details about my maternal
grandfather. And a big thank you to my dad, Thomas Versaci, who patiently
retold many stories, answered a ton of questions, enumerated details, and
didn’t really care when I added some of my own. One of the gifts of this entire
journey has been to sort through his memories with him.</div>
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As always, I’m
deeply thankful for my students, many of whom were interested in my trip and
some of whom had the energy and patience to read parts of this book—I’m
thinking especially of Sarah Bates, Nolan Turner, and Deb Ebert. Working with
all of my students inspires me daily.</div>
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And finally, I am
grateful beyond words for Shannon Lienhart, Nick Versaci, and Tony
Versaci—without them the book wouldn’t exist.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-70315754001178599352015-12-13T09:38:00.000-08:002016-06-06T16:00:23.109-07:00RIP, Darling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
"In writing, you must kill your darlings."</div>
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--William Faulkner</div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I've been working on the final revisions to </span><i><a href="http://amzn.to/20XJHRW" target="_blank">That Hidden Road</a></i><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">, which are due to my publisher by February 1st. This deadline, of course, is not the hard part. The hard part is following Faulkner's sage advice to cut those words, sentences, scenes, and chapters of our writing that we may have great affection for but that don't serve the needs of the story. Thus, I present to you one of my darlings, whose life I snuffed out yesterday. I used a pillow, so there was lots of thrashing around. Also, I wept the entire time. To ease the pain, I've also included some pictures.</span></span></div>
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"The Gospel According to John from Portland"</div>
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Somewhere in the Ozarks I met a biker heading in the opposite direction
who told me that if I went through Farmington, Missouri, I had to stop at Al’s
Place. The warm rain pelted us as we stood there astride our bikes, so I didn’t
get many details about it other than that it was a biker’s hostel. I had
forgotten about this conversation until late afternoon several days later, when—racing the rain—I ride into a little town and see painted
on the ground the words “Al’s Place TA Trail Inn” along with two white
arrows.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJuSlIlUJcI8iBZhjFWIEzf6o4KzFaMeF6r7Q-z2Sgc0hw8-0gfz58rKioea1qoSgwdoMQ11rDSEdoxxUgvH46AwCbxlevMJ77YqEqb0kFJfq61XyPmDaLcdVIYdb_3Inoe0swXzwmr-ft/s1600/DSCF0698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJuSlIlUJcI8iBZhjFWIEzf6o4KzFaMeF6r7Q-z2Sgc0hw8-0gfz58rKioea1qoSgwdoMQ11rDSEdoxxUgvH46AwCbxlevMJ77YqEqb0kFJfq61XyPmDaLcdVIYdb_3Inoe0swXzwmr-ft/s320/DSCF0698.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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These stenciled announcements reappear every couple of blocks, turning
me this way and that until I’m near the center of Farmington at the corner of
Franklin and Liberty and staring at a two-story limestone and red brick
building.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEime5H4Hl83Iae-RgR9vKnJ4DfvVWFuqHw0MewCG6LCgFdmxlJHxqlEt8AJw-zGEqlCzIEkQmGxY8kYZOqtDfIR2u8EykqE5Ivat8WFEl3ipxreFbYe7WdTBjjQ3K5lSQMYpT8x3RYw7qAv/s1600/DSCF0710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEime5H4Hl83Iae-RgR9vKnJ4DfvVWFuqHw0MewCG6LCgFdmxlJHxqlEt8AJw-zGEqlCzIEkQmGxY8kYZOqtDfIR2u8EykqE5Ivat8WFEl3ipxreFbYe7WdTBjjQ3K5lSQMYpT8x3RYw7qAv/s320/DSCF0710.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I peer into the windows in front,
and all I see is a storeroom stacked with boxes and chairs. In back,
though, there’s a black steel staircase leading up to a door. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7Kpu9XnPBYaUe5gqtEqZO9A9MYkb90tI3bdg8LjbRMAwX7jntAdqg708GSowiH_RWlbN3CwAlP93JWeBKPbzTnXvBQiPvqtORcVBCsfwJo3F7EnsV3ImskN64q8YApGlXSpHpEyi5dTw/s1600/DSCF0709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7Kpu9XnPBYaUe5gqtEqZO9A9MYkb90tI3bdg8LjbRMAwX7jntAdqg708GSowiH_RWlbN3CwAlP93JWeBKPbzTnXvBQiPvqtORcVBCsfwJo3F7EnsV3ImskN64q8YApGlXSpHpEyi5dTw/s320/DSCF0709.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I lean Rusty
against the stairs and walk up. The door has a keypad lock and a phone
number to call, which turns out to be an office at city hall. Once I tell the
woman on the other end that I’m a biker, she gives me the code.</div>
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Inside is a space that looks like a
high-end urban loft. There’s a laundry room, a television area with two big
couches, a table and chairs by a full kitchen, a big bathroom, a computer table
in back, and several rooms filled with bunkbeds, clean sheets, and towels.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRAF2X-ADSVrBWeDSBvZu1DsSOrb7f_zz6-059-jS5EhBYJro-q62UyelG3SLhQf4hOzeehK5XQfq5VABlT8X5c1fQ0pZEjJmLj7boqvnTuMmUdmUJbKNUQ8BbwKIbsYvR3ng618L-HcL/s1600/DSCF0705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRAF2X-ADSVrBWeDSBvZu1DsSOrb7f_zz6-059-jS5EhBYJro-q62UyelG3SLhQf4hOzeehK5XQfq5VABlT8X5c1fQ0pZEjJmLj7boqvnTuMmUdmUJbKNUQ8BbwKIbsYvR3ng618L-HcL/s320/DSCF0705.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I call “Hello?” but no one responds.</div>
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Back downstairs, I detach my two rear panniers, my two front panniers, my
rear bag, and my handlebar bag. This doesn’t take nearly as long as it sounds,
but carrying them up is a different story. Because of the weight, I make two
trips up the stairs and into the first room—the smallest, with only one set of
bunk beds. Rusty comes next, hoisted over my shoulder with one hand while I
grab the metal railing with the other and negotiate the rain-slick steps.<br />
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Once everything is upstairs, I take a closer look around. The bathroom
has two showers and two sinks, and like the rest of the place, they’re
spotless. Counting up all of the beds in the rooms, I figure that fourteen
people can bed down here. More—many more—if some are willing to sleep on the
couches or the floors. The computer has internet access, the television has
basic cable, and the fridge and cupboards are stocked with pasta, sauce,
crackers, drinks, and enough pots, pans, and utensils to cook just about
anything.</span></div>
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I take a shower, and by the time I
get out, the skies have opened up and the earlier drizzle is now a bona fide
downpour. I hear thundercracks, too, and the last place I want to be in an
electrical storm is out on the open road with a big hunk of steel between my legs.</div>
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On the wall opposite the kitchen is
a gigantic frame containing a yellow, red, and blue biking jersey with “Long
John Silver’s” emblazoned across the front. Next to this jersey is a sheet of
typewritten paper explaining that the “Al” of Al’s Place is Al Dziewa, an avid
biker who owned a Long John Silver’s in town. In 2003, just like me, he was
diagnosed with cancer, and in 2005, the year I was cancer-free for two years,
he died at the age of forty-nine. Some friends on the city council voted to
turn this building, a 140-year-old decommissioned county jail, into a biker’s
hostel.<br />
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"> I poke around some more and find a sheet on the wall by the door labeled “Al’s Rules.” The only one that gives me pause reads “ABSOLUTELY no bikes upstairs. Please lock your bikes in the storeroom downstairs with the key provided.” To the right is a key attached to a wooden dowel. I glance into my room, where Rusty is propped up against the back wall.</span><br />
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I look out into the rain and tell myself that I’ll lock Rusty up when the rain lifts. I don’t think Al would mind.<br />
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***</div>
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After the rain stops about an hour later, I don’t move Rusty, but I do
walk a few blocks to take a look around Farmington and get something to eat. By
the time I get back, two more bikers are there. Alan from New Zealand and John
from Portland. Both are riding the TransAmerica Trail, but in opposite
directions. After the introductions, Alan goes back to checking his email at
the computer down the hall and John joins me by the TV area. He looks to be
about fifty, and he’s wrist-deep into a quart of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.</div>
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“My son tells me I need to eat one of these every couple of days and
drink a half gallon of juice every night,” he says.</div>
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Over the next hour, I get to hear much more about John’s son and his wealth of knowledge about bike touring. I hear all of his son’s tips about nutrition.
I hear all about why his son believes that touring with a trailer—as John is
doing—is far superior to touring with panniers. Emboldened by his son’s obvious
authority in all matters bicycling, John issues some authoritative statements
of his own regarding the importance of sticking exactly to the TA Trail as
opposed to “cheating” by finding shortcuts. He also asks me no less than three
times what my name is. Now I don’t claim to be a memorable guy, but I’ve never
had problems with people forgetting my unusual name. I’m convinced that he’s
trying to establish some weird kind of dominance in the conversation.</div>
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I turn on the television and find ESPN.</div>
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“You’re not going to tell me that you miss TV, are you?”</div>
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I just look at him.</div>
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“God, getting away from all that has been one of the true blessings of
touring. My son told me how much I’d appreciate being out on the road, but I
had no idea.”</div>
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The <i>SportsCenter</i> guys are sitting down with LeBron James, who
plans to announce what team he’ll be playing with next year. “You like
basketball, John?”</div>
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“Do I like basketball?” he says, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
“Now that’s an interesting question…”</div>
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He doesn’t say anything else for a good fifteen seconds. I figure that as
long as I keep looking at him expectantly, he’s going to keep quiet, so I turn
back to the television.</div>
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“Well,” he says. “I used to do some IT work for the Blazers, and let’s
just say that I had some insights into the sport.”</div>
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<i>Or let’s not</i>, I think. <i>Better yet, why don’t you jam some ice
cream into your ear? Or does your son not recommend that?</i><br />
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I gesture at the TV.
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“Watch,” I say, “they’ll take what should be a five-second statement and
stretch it into an hour.”<br />
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“Oh, he won’t say
anything,” John announces.<br />
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“Yeah, it’s a special
show for him to make his statement.”<br />
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John laughs, shaking his
head. “That’s not how it works. The agents are in charge of this whole deal.
The fans just eat it up, no offense.”<br />
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Before I have a chance
to hit John between the eyes with the remote, Alan comes over and sits between
us. The talk shifts back to biking, and Alan is more than happy to ask John all
sorts of questions about the road ahead. Ten minutes later, when the wire
ticker on the bottom of the screen delivers the news that LeBron James will
leave Cleveland for Miami, I’m tempted to jump up and shout “Aha!” but by then
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that John is a douchey little peckerwood and I
hate him.</div>
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***</div>
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A little later the front door opens and a guy in a suit walks in. He
introduces himself as Greg Beavers, a member of the Farmington City Council.
He’s one of the guys who helped turn the old prison into Al’s Place, and he
likes to stop by to meet the bikers and find out where
they’re from. Alan, being from New Zealand, makes Greg’s eyes go wide, at which
point John quickly points out that he and Alan are actually biking the same
distance.</div>
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“So, the only thing we ask is that you keep the bikes downstairs,” Greg
says. “I saw someone’s chained to the railing…”</div>
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“That’s mine,” Alan says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“We have a storeroom downstairs,” Greg says, looking at us. “Did you guys
find that…?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Rusty is about twenty feet behind us, behind the closed door of my room.
It’s pouring again outside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah,” I say. “The key was right over by the front door.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m smiling at Greg, but I can feel John’s eyes on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, I locked my bike down there,” John says. “Is there more than one
storage room?” he asks Greg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I thought my bike was the only one down there,” John says, turning to me
for an explanation. Greg’s eyes follow his. He doesn’t know what this is all
about; he’s just politely following the flow of the conversation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I should just say that I didn’t see the rule until after I brought my
bike up and that it was raining and that I plan to take it down as soon as
there’s a break in the weather—all reasonable courses of action—but before I
can get any of this out I hear myself say, “Nope, I put it down there when I got
here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
John frowns and tilts his head as if he’s analyzing some evidence that
doesn’t quite add up. “Hmmm. Wonder why I didn’t see it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I put in the back corner.” I’m committed now and can’t blink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Greg’s clearly not interested and wants to get going. “Well, listen…if
you guys can think of anything else you might need, let us know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Greg takes off, Alan heads back to the computer, and I retreat to my room
to get away from John.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I leave Al’s Place
early the next morning, partly to stay ahead of the rain and partly to avoid
having to talk with John again. Unfortunately, he’s eating a bowl of cereal as
I walk out of the bathroom. He’s still eating it or maybe another one—as per his
son’s recommendation, no doubt—after I get dressed and carry my bags down the stairs.
He’s still there when I return and head to my room, and when I come back out
with Rusty, he’s standing on the edge of the kitchen, nodding and smiling
tightly as he delivers his final judgment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I thought so.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-48596841916111559482015-12-02T15:16:00.002-08:002015-12-06T07:10:08.876-08:00Good News!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKhIq0tSwDfB6HRe8r08xNH0HtMe14wtK9EcUPsnu5KQH6QQHbDEVE9DIuAab2TtJDGdBlpYeBDGgIYKAIoSx2PocIWMbBSLn9wKZBowqUjmATsODsVwuaCc25D8Oi5DOq8Ek_w5AOD9v/s1600/AH+Contract.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKhIq0tSwDfB6HRe8r08xNH0HtMe14wtK9EcUPsnu5KQH6QQHbDEVE9DIuAab2TtJDGdBlpYeBDGgIYKAIoSx2PocIWMbBSLn9wKZBowqUjmATsODsVwuaCc25D8Oi5DOq8Ek_w5AOD9v/s320/AH+Contract.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Just a quick update that I'm making in part because I have timely news to share and in part because it's been over a month since my last post.<br />
<br />
So, the news. I received word just before Thanksgiving that my memoir, <i>That Hidden Road</i>, was accepted for publication by <a href="http://www.apprenticehouse.com/" target="_blank">Apprentice House Press</a>, and the fact of all this is still sinking in. AH is a small press that's affiliated with Loyola University in Maryland, and it's a great fit for two main reasons.<br />
<br />
First, in the editors' wish list were "travel stories" and "memoirs of personal discovery." Check and check.<br />
<br />
Second, AH has a story that really resonates with me. Here's an excerpt from their website:<br />
<br />
<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.8px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Apprentice House is the nation’s first entirely student-managed book publisher. Students at Loyola University Maryland are responsible for every aspect of the publishing process, from acquisitions to design and publication of every book. Our mission is, first and foremost, to educate students about the book publishing process.</div>
<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.8px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
As a program within the Communication Department at Loyola University Maryland, it is driven by student work conducted in four courses: Introduction to Book Publishing, Manuscript Evaluation & Development, Book Design & Production, and Book Marketing & Promotion.</div>
<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.8px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Therefore, students in these courses serve as staff in Apprentice House’s acquisitions, design, and marketing departments, respectively. After students leave the courses, AH professors and AH student staff sustain the on-going operation of the company and market its frontlist and backlist titles.</div>
<br />
Though I spend a fair amount of time writing and like doing it (most of the time), I consider myself a teacher first, and the teaching project of which I'm most proud is <a href="http://www.palomar.edu/english/Bravura/index.html" target="_blank">my college's literary magazine, Bravura</a>, which is a much, much smaller version of what they do at AH.<br />
<br />
So I'm looking forward to working with the students and teachers at this press, and I'm looking forward to seeing <i>That Hidden Road</i> in print, which should happen in or around next fall.<br />
<br />
Next up is my deadline is February 1, when I need to turn in the final revised manuscript. So, if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-38594874583966763642015-10-03T16:07:00.001-07:002019-02-28T05:46:24.709-08:00#AmWriting, #AmReading<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above
all others: read a lot and write a lot. There's no way around these two things
that I'm aware of, no shortcut.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white;"></span> --Stephen King, <i>On Writing: A
Memoir of the Craft</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a different kind of
post—one that is much more rooted in my teaching than in random occurrences
from my everyday life. For that reason, it might not be for everybody. But, if
you’re at all interested in reading, writing, and the connections between the
two, then step right in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Every semester, my creative writing class is packed to the
rafters (well, acoustic ceiling tiles) with students eager to become better
storytellers. They come for a variety of reasons. Some are there to fulfill a
requirement (which it does). Some are there because they think the class sounds
fun (which it is). Some are there because they love [INSERT LATEST FANTASY
SERIES HERE] and are writing their own fantasy series (which, sadly, I don’t
allow in workshop…yes, I know, I’m a monster). And some are there because writing creatively is a part of their lives, they want it to continue
to be so, and they’d like to know how to do it better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To all of these students, I say there’s no real secret to
becoming a better writer. Really, you only need to conscientiously and
regularly do three things:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<ol>
<li>Write</li>
<li>Share your work</li>
<li>Read</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me quickly break down the first two before I get to the third, which is the real subject of this blog post.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Number One. “Write” actually encompasses two things—drafting
and revising. Of these, the first is necessary, painful, and usually not very
good (“shitty first drafts,” to use Anne Lamott’s priceless phrase). The
second—<i>revising</i>—is where it all happens. I like to remind students that
“revision” means “to see again”; in other words, they shouldn’t confuse <i>revision</i> with <i>proofreading</i>.
The latter is like sprucing up a room with some spackle and paint, while the
former is gutting and rebuilding a functionless room with sledgehammer,
reciprocating saw, and a dust mask. That spackle and paint will come much, much
later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number Two. It’s important for writers to get over the
understandably high levels of anxiety that go along with sharing their writing.
Even more important is that they share that work with the right kind of
readers—readers who are smart, honest, and aware of the aforementioned
difference between proofreading and revision. Such readers are more rare and
valuable than a Dodo bird that shits gold, so if you’re lucky enough to find
any, hang onto them with both hands, both feet, and a prehensile tail if you’ve
got one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Number Three. As the most prolific and successful writer
this or any planet has ever known says (see my cold opening), reading is vital.
Yet there’s a little more to it than that. Someone could be an avid reader and
still not be able to write a compelling opening paragraph, let alone the rest
of the story that needs to follow it. Reading <i>is</i> important,
but more important is <i>rereading</i> (every bit as important
as <i>rewriting</i>) and <i>how</i> we read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Settle in, because this may take a while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s start by considering the opening paragraph of
one of my very favorite short stories—Tobias Wolff’s “The Chain”:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Brian Gold was at the top of the hill when the dog
attacked. A big black wolflike animal attached to a chain, it came flying
off a back porch and tore through its yard into the park, moving easily in
spite of the deep snow, making for Gold’s daughter. He waited for the chain to
pull the dog up short; the dog kept coming. Gold plunged down the hill,
shouting as he went. Snow and wind deadened his voice. Anna’s sled was almost
at the bottom of the slope. Gold had raised the hood of her parka against the
needling gusts, and he knew she couldn’t hear him or see the dog racing toward
her. He was conscious of the dog’s speed and of his own dreamy progress, the
weight of his gum boots, the clinging trap of crust beneath the new snow. His
overcoat flapped at his knees. He screamed one last time as the dog made its
lunge, and at that moment Anna flinched away and the dog caught her shoulder
instead of her face. Gold was barely halfway down the hill, arms pumping, feet
sliding in the boots. He seemed to be running in place, held at a fixed,
unbridgeable distance as the dog dragged Anna backward off the sled, shaking
her like a doll. Gold threw himself down the hill helplessly, then the distance
vanished and he was there” (199).*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In our first read of this, we probably <b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">READ LIKE A FAN</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, maybe “fan” isn’t the best word. The point is that
when we read in this mode, we read to be entertained, to <i>consume</i>.
Most often, that thing we consume is the plot because a) we expect things to
happen and b) we like to know what those things are. If a piece of writing is
compelling, we don’t always notice or appreciate what makes it compelling;
instead, we let ourselves be carried away, having gladly accepted the writer’s
invitation into what John Gardner refers to as the “fictive dream.” There’s
nothing wrong with this kind of reading; in fact, it’s this exact kind of reading
that makes us love reading. And, perhaps, want to be writers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a first rereading of this paragraph (and with the benefit
of having read the rest of the story), we might start to <b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">READ LIKE AN ENGLISH MAJOR</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I use this term a little facetiously, but what I’m getting
at is that when we read like this, we read <i>beyond</i> the page. We
find deeper meanings and patterns and connections. Since this is a rereading,
we now know that “The Chain” can be seen as a tragic tale of seemingly
justifiable revenge gone awry, and as we look back at the story’s opening, we
notice a few things. First, of course, is that chain. In the story’s opening
paragraph, it’s a literal object, but upon further examination we can now
appreciate it as metaphor (or <i>symbol</i>—a word I loathe but seem
unable to escape). It’s not just a metal chain, it’s the chain of events that
poor Gold will set in motion and watch spin out of control. It’s also a symbol
(damn it!) of restraint, and its inability to restrain the dog in this opening
will be echoed later by Gold’s inability to restrain himself. The wolf, too,
can be seen as something larger. Our base animal aggression, maybe? Finally,
there’s the business about Gold’s daughter’s coat. In the ensuing story, Gold’s
pursuit of what he feels is right leads to trouble, and this drama is
foreshadowed and encapsulated neatly in the detail of the coat. He does
something to protect her (“Gold had raised the hood of her parka against the
needling gusts”), but now that “protection” renders her deaf to her father’s
insistent shouts and blind to the dog’s imminent attack. Later, in doing what
he thinks is right, Gold will open the door to all kinds of wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s the third way of reading that I’m most interested
in, and that way is to <b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">READ LIKE
A WRITER</span></b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell my students to imagine a beautiful watch. Some people
might use this watch only to tell time. Some people might also admire its shape
and fine lines. Still others—some <i>few</i> others, I would say—want
to take that watch apart and see how it works. That’s reading like a writer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Let’s take the first line of the story:<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Brian
Gold was at the top of the hill when the dog attacked.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a sharp, concise line that's elegantly symmetrical as
well--eleven one-syllable words bracketed by two two-syllable words. The line
also packs a punch, to be sure, but what’s most intriguing from a writer’s
perspective is <i>how</i> Wolff packs that punch and <i>how much</i> he
accomplishes in such a small space. The first words establish character and
point of view, the next few words establish a setting, and the final words
introduce conflict.<br />
<br />
About conflict, writer and teacher Janet Burroway says it best: “In
literature, only trouble is interesting.” It’s an obvious lesson, but like most
obvious lessons, it’s easy to forget. Too often, early drafts of stories wade
through pages and pages before the writer even suggests that there’s trouble
afoot. If there’s no trouble, nothing’s happening, and if nothing’s happening,
few readers are going to stick around to watch the paint dry. Writers must
promise conflict, and they must promise it early. Like first or second sentence
early.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>By the end of Wolff’s first sentence, we know there’s going
to be trouble. Moreover, those details of character, setting, and conflict that
he introduces are broad enough to give himself room to subsequently answer the
questions that the reader inevitably asks—What’s the hill like? What kind of
dog? Who’s being attacked? Finally, there’s the overall momentum of this first
line; because Wolff drops the “weight” at the end—“the dog attacked”—the reader
is compelled to read on:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“A big black wolflike animal attached to a
chain, it came flying off a back porch and tore through its yard into the park,
moving easily in spite of the deep snow, making for Gold’s daughter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here we have a longer sentence that begins where the first
one ends, developing “dog” into “big black wolflike animal” and “attacked” into
“came flying off a back porch and tore through its yard into the park.” We get
an added bit of setting—the “deep snow” tells us it’s winter—and the conflict
is delivered (and intensified) again as a weighty surprise at the end of the
sentence, where Wolff reveals what’s at stake: “Gold’s daughter.” More of that momentum. Now we <i>really </i>want to keep going.<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“He
waited for the chain to pull the dog up short; the dog kept coming.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, we were wondering about that “attached to a chain,”
which Wolff buries in the second sentence but focuses on now in the third. He
returns to a short, clipped sentence to develop a staccato rhythm. Also, as
with the previous two sentences, this one ends in a familiar place. Consider
the pattern:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
End of sentence one: “…the dog attacked.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
End of sentence two: “…making for Gold’s daughter.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
End of sentence three: “…the dog kept coming.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With this repetition, Wolff keeps us focused on the image of
a dog charging toward a helpless little girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having firmly established that, Wolff now shifts his focus,
moving Gold into action with a few details that further develop the space in
which the action is unfolding:<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Gold
plunged down the hill, shouting as he went. Snow and wind deadened his voice.
Anna’s sled was almost at the bottom of the slope.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three short sentences. Direct and to the point. Also, Wolff
moves us away from the dog; there are, after all, two other characters in this
scene. Yet he chooses his words carefully so as to continue the tone of dread
and danger initiated by the (for the moment) absent dog: “plunged,” “shouting,”
“deadened,” and “bottom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next sentence reads,<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Gold had raised the hood of her parka against the
needling gusts, and he knew she couldn’t hear him or see the dog racing toward
her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here, Wolff delivers a brief bit of backstory that ups the
ante of the situation—his daughter can’t hear him as danger closes in. Wolff
continues to intensify the initial conflict with this detail, and also by
returning to the dog, who once again appears at the end of the sentence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“He was conscious of the dog’s speed and of his own
dreamy progress, the weight of his gum boots, the clinging trap of crust
beneath the new snow. His overcoat flapped at his knees.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a fluid transition from “dog racing” at the end of
the previous sentence to “dog’s speed” near the beginning of the first one
here. But by and large, the focus is on Gold. Specifically, as a counterpoint
to the dog. Wolff does this overtly at the beginning, where “the dog’s speed”
is set against “his own dreamy progress.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, he focuses on details that at once reinforce the snowy
setting and concretize Gold’s slowness: “weight of his gum boots,” “clinging
trap of crust,” and “overcoat flapped.” These details represent a true economy
of language as they serve more than one purpose (something writers should
strive for in their revisions).<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, by shifting the focus to Gold temporarily, Wolff
leaves us worrying about how close that dog is getting to his daughter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Creative writing teachers like myself will often draw
something on the board that looks like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-MxCgdeHz6wlwCGEADqqShFRKNqpPjnZ2I-4D4h4xulecl_GYHg2et98Yp8Iz_6BSghxSqUJ-MxvhG-M1HdJqyMoWskjVA3-76BQ0wowLbZFUGedLSC7vdycfZZGiuKjrYLOWcpoONumJ/s1600/Upside+Down+Checkmark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-MxCgdeHz6wlwCGEADqqShFRKNqpPjnZ2I-4D4h4xulecl_GYHg2et98Yp8Iz_6BSghxSqUJ-MxvhG-M1HdJqyMoWskjVA3-76BQ0wowLbZFUGedLSC7vdycfZZGiuKjrYLOWcpoONumJ/s1600/Upside+Down+Checkmark.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>We use this image to represent the classic structure of
narrative: rising tension/development of conflict (the upward slope), a
climax/crisis point (the peak), and the denouement/falling action (the short dropoff).
Wolff, in this opening paragraph, delivers a miniature version of this
structure—a smaller story within the larger one—and his next few lines reside
squarely atop the point:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“He screamed one last time as the dog made its
lunge, and at that moment Anna flinched away and the dog caught her shoulder
instead of her face. Gold was barely halfway down the hill, arms pumping, feet
sliding in the boots. He seemed to be running in place, held at a fixed,
unbridgeable distance as the dog dragged Anna backward off the sled, shaking
her like a doll.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few things to notice here. From the beginning of this
paragraph, Wolff has carefully choreographed his three characters—father,
daughter, dog—and in the first sentence here all three converge in a fairly
breathless fashion; it’s a long sentence (a compound-complex sentence for all
you grammar nerds) that unfolds across a series of actions: Gold screams, the
dog lunges, Anna flinches, and the dog catches her. Then, Wolff leaves us
momentarily wondering what the dog is doing with Anna by focusing again on
concrete details of slowness (“barely halfway down the hill” and “feet
sliding”). In fact, Wolff stretches the scene out to an excruciating degree by
continuing these kinds of details (“running in place,” “held at a fixed,
unbridgeable distance”) at the beginning of the final sentence before returning
to the attack and delivering the action we’ve been dreading (shaking
her like a doll”).<br />
<br />
Finally, like Gold, we arrive at the end:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Gold threw himself down the hill helplessly, then
the distance vanished and he was there.”</span><br />
<br />
Note how his arrival is anti-climactic, rendered so because
Wolff uses the accursed passive voice (“he was there”). Consider the
difference, for example, if he had ended the sentence with “…the distance
vanished and he pounced on the animal.” This crisis isn't yet over, and just as
one sentence of Wolff’s urges us to read on, so too does he design paragraphs
that push us into the next one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2079802734668178506" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Action doesn’t just write itself; it needs to be carefully constructed
and developed by an attentive writer with his or her finger on the pulse of the
story. But something else, something even more subtle, is going on here. By
starting at this particular moment, Wolff patches the reader into his main
character’s perspective at a moment of crisis so that Gold’s fears and feelings
of helplessness become <i>ours</i> as well. This identification and
sympathy is absolutely crucial to the rest of the story because it prevents us
from judging Gold’s later actions too harshly. The readers are, in fact, the
only ones who can truly sympathize; as Wolff writes about the aftermath of the
attack, “[Gold] had been alone in his anger for a week now and wanted some
company. Though his wife claimed to be angry too, she hadn’t seen what he had
seen” (201). But <i>we</i> have seen what Gold has seen. And we have
felt it, too. Wolff’s skillful writing makes sure of this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously, reading like a writer can be a bit tedious if we
subject a story’s every sentence to the microscope, and I offer this close
reading merely as an example and model for a general principle—that there is
much to be learned by looking at craft and much that we often miss. If you want
to become a better writer, then you should develop the skill of reading from a
writer’s perspective. If you find yourself caring for a particular character,
go back and see if you can figure out how the writer <i>made</i> you
care. If you find yourself thinking about a scene or conversation in a book, go
back and examine how the writer choreographed that scene or phrased and
presented the dialogue. Every good story is filled with lessons about how good
stories are told, and for the writers among us, these are treasures well worth
unearthing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*All quotes taken from Wolff, Tobias. “The Chain.” <i>Our
Story Begins</i>. New York: Vintage, 2009. 199-213.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-27918536568534354572015-09-13T09:58:00.000-07:002015-09-13T09:58:34.962-07:00Patience Is a Virtue or Something<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
can’t remember the exact story I was telling Shannon way back when, but I do
remember that the events I was relating required me to pause and announce what
I see as one of my central virtues.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Look,”
I began, “I’m a patient gu—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“No
you’re not,” Shannon said, and proceeded to laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
A
minute and a half later, when she showed no signs of stopping, I finally had to
interrupt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’m
not patient is what you’re saying?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Sweetie,”
she said, “you’re many things, but ‘patient’ isn’t one of them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
had filed this little conversation away but had cause to remember it a few
weeks ago, when I was running late for a meeting at school yet nevertheless
stopped at a nearby Starbucks. As I reached the door, a couple of young girls
no older than fourteen were coming from the other direction, so I opened the
door for them and gestured them ahead. They giggled out a “thank you” and
skittered toward the line. I went inside and fell in behind them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Which
is when I realized my mistake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
assume that everyone orders as quickly as I do at Starbucks—a grande of
whichever of the three roasts looks best, a little room for cream. My average
time to complete the transaction is around 17.5 seconds, and I was counting on
this rapidity if I was going to make my meeting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
girls, however, were operating on a different clock. The two of them stood and
pointed and debated what they should get. Then they asked several questions of
the cashier and then conferred with each other again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Oh
c’mon</i>, I thought, regretting my gesture of opening the door for them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Behind
me in line was a mother and her two children, and I sighed loudly in attempt to
get her attention so that I could throw her a “high school girls, amiright?”
eye roll, but she was studying the menu on the wall herself. I shifted my feet
and blew air through my lips in an effort to hurry the girls along in their
deliberations. When they finally ordered, I saw one of the girls lean and say
something to the cashier, who couldn’t hear what she was saying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Ohfershitsake…let’s
GO already…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
girl called the cashier closer, cupped her hand to the cashier’s ear, and
whispered something. Then she handed the cashier her phone so that she could
scan her Starbucks app, which is I guess how the kids pay for coffee these
days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
girls moved on, and I made a somewhat douchey display of <i>finally</i>
reaching the counter, but I suspect that I was the only one attuned to my
subtle physical actions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
ordered my coffee and reached for my wallet, but the cashier told me that the
two girls had already paid for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
wish I could report that this little incident miraculously transformed my
default mode from “MOVE, GodDAMmit!” to “Oh no, please, after you,” but in
truth, the changeover has been gradual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
am trying, though.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-38788624355820401252015-08-15T10:26:00.002-07:002015-09-09T18:06:27.736-07:00My Hero, Teddy N.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A few months ago,
Shannon and I were watching an episode of <i>The Mindy Project </i>(shut
up—it’s good!), and there was a scene where one of the characters was sitting
in his boyhood room at his mom’s house. Just over his left shoulder, in the
background, I saw a green blob.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Oh
my God,” I said, scrambling for the remote. “Is that what I think it is?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Wuzzat?”
Shannon said, waking up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
paused the DVR, backed it up a hair, hit PLAY, paused again—and then repeated
this process four or five times until I was able to freeze the half-second that
the green blob was onscreen. It looked something like this:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxYihWV5PCk6T5VVRgQ0Erg-Rg7GABxIPeSi-oUfl2XPgDWVnFFwOVf5JJYoA0s3YvrsShM8ErTzeRjFS2_wjqS8yqzDnlwbsYKJyCQT1H4bgNIIcxvzBUnYZOlRjM1AfVFuZr3UgSHIP/s1600/moldarama+alligator+blurred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxYihWV5PCk6T5VVRgQ0Erg-Rg7GABxIPeSi-oUfl2XPgDWVnFFwOVf5JJYoA0s3YvrsShM8ErTzeRjFS2_wjqS8yqzDnlwbsYKJyCQT1H4bgNIIcxvzBUnYZOlRjM1AfVFuZr3UgSHIP/s1600/moldarama+alligator+blurred.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
By now, Shannon
was fully awake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What
the hell are you doing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Nothing.
Oh my God. Go back to sleep. Holy shit. Do you know what that is?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What
what is?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
got up and pointed to the green blob on the screen. “I think it’s one of those
wax alligators.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Sadly, I lack the words to describe the look
on her face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> For
the record, this is what I saw through the blur:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDCS2ZzFf3rRoEDz6XwlakO59PH-47zfo7RPcgCj_0Z-PIVfNgvspPcZoANwiDo02ZH5xyOGvQvEMSrT8uRDidlE6Z5jLcNZiXRwrDXSDNre0fFtCYaF4cMpfPHZJ_dWO6rnVqa7CJmpf/s1600/moldarama+alligator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDCS2ZzFf3rRoEDz6XwlakO59PH-47zfo7RPcgCj_0Z-PIVfNgvspPcZoANwiDo02ZH5xyOGvQvEMSrT8uRDidlE6Z5jLcNZiXRwrDXSDNre0fFtCYaF4cMpfPHZJ_dWO6rnVqa7CJmpf/s1600/moldarama+alligator.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
For many people
who grew up in the Chicagoland area, there should be a flash of recognition.
Especially if they, like me, were treated to any family or school field trips
to the nearby Brookfield Zoo. I loved the <i>real</i> animals, of course, but
what I looked forward to most were the <i>wax</i> ones. Stationed at the
entrances and exits of the various animal houses were Mold-a-Rama
machines—bubble-topped contraptions about the size of a hefty jukebox, where,
for fifty cents, you could partake in injection-mold magic. After receiving
your quarters, the machine rumbled into action. Two long pistons—each holding
half of a metal block (the mold) with hoses sprouting off the top—pushed slowly
together. Hums and clicks and hisses sounded as fluids and air were pumped into
and out of that mold. A light on top of the machine changed colors to signal
the different stages of manufacture. Then, a little over a minute later, the
mold halves separated, and there stood the red giraffe or black panther or
green alligator. A little blade on a long, thin arm would slide from the back of
the machine and knock the animal off the sloped metal surface, sending it
tumbling into the chute at the front of the machine. You then opened the little
door in front, scooped it out, and—holding it by the base—waved it
gently for a minute or so until it cooled completely. I learned this last step
the hard way when I grabbed a rhino with too much enthusiasm and put my thumb
through his chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
You
can watch the process <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKCE3nSKX2k" target="_blank">HERE</a>, but it’s missing two key features of the
experience: the smell of melting crayons, and the sheer joy of retrieving your
prize.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> I
write this description in the past tense, but that’s not completely accurate.
We live in a wonderful time where the collected wisdom and knowledge of the ages
exist—quite literally—at our fingertips, so for the twenty minutes following
my alligator sighting, I kept </span><i style="line-height: 200%;">Mindy</i><span style="line-height: 200%;"> on pause while I Googled away and
discovered several things, but for the sake of brevity I’ll stick to the
highlights:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Mold-a-Rama machines are still around</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">They now cost $2</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The animals aren’t wax; they’re plastic</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">I’m not the only one obsessed with this stuff</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In fact, if you type “moldarama
animals” into Google Images, you get a pretty good look at the animals that
come out of the machines and those machines themselves. Really, you should do
that right now. I’ll wait.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Pretty
cool, right? Just in case you impatiently charged ahead in this post, here’s some of what you missed:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfecIXlCe95K-qjXVraaCpYw95vnC2sYkU0Q8FEYigEE-u7LAHIWzLIfZDZ2zQYTA13BjI2QZA-XxmFlvLXp27X8vlzuJKDYmVKXZdY9C_dnk04aWw-9S7RA0cnr9HdUgFSh4YnOu6vcP/s1600/moldarama+03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfecIXlCe95K-qjXVraaCpYw95vnC2sYkU0Q8FEYigEE-u7LAHIWzLIfZDZ2zQYTA13BjI2QZA-XxmFlvLXp27X8vlzuJKDYmVKXZdY9C_dnk04aWw-9S7RA0cnr9HdUgFSh4YnOu6vcP/s320/moldarama+03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxnKUMUR0o7kFUbx2iKGIDQeizF-80W92n6tiGNGlSw7rEHx36n94WQWQM-lzws7IEfW-D6-DW3-8YPVhzOHtdJZzUkE9Mxpoh6wIcX-419s_SX4KJqNPa5EM8RucJTnMp724m043Au7m/s1600/moldarama+01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxnKUMUR0o7kFUbx2iKGIDQeizF-80W92n6tiGNGlSw7rEHx36n94WQWQM-lzws7IEfW-D6-DW3-8YPVhzOHtdJZzUkE9Mxpoh6wIcX-419s_SX4KJqNPa5EM8RucJTnMp724m043Au7m/s320/moldarama+01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5wYcr2Vz_orbie9BIOy9Cea5riYCj84upHD_EQR2HeJvp7hLerZy97D229oTVZoQBShRTX0iIFLgSzBXeyCLFmVs0aZ4FqEu2knO4uBV_sxeRDUF5GJfYfWUH6F_7j-txp_o0r5GfX7Q/s1600/moldarama+04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5wYcr2Vz_orbie9BIOy9Cea5riYCj84upHD_EQR2HeJvp7hLerZy97D229oTVZoQBShRTX0iIFLgSzBXeyCLFmVs0aZ4FqEu2knO4uBV_sxeRDUF5GJfYfWUH6F_7j-txp_o0r5GfX7Q/s1600/moldarama+04.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> What
the images don’t tell is the larger story, which also exists on the internet
<a href="http://mentalfloss.com/article/55241/brief-history-mold-rama" target="_blank">HERE</a>, <a href="http://mold-a-rama.com/index.php?p=1_2_About-Us" target="_blank">HERE</a>, and <a href="http://www.tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/waxing-nostalgic-in-30-seconds-mold-a-rama-makes-memories-toys-to-last-a/1015315" target="_blank">HERE </a>(to list just a few).
And because it’s very likely that you’re one of those readers who won’t
pause to Google mid-read, I’ll summarize.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Mold-a-Rama
was founded in the early 1960s in Chicago (and debuted at the 1964 World’s
Fair), and today it’s owned by a family business that’s run out of a house in
Brookfield, Illinois. The owner—Bill Jones—and his two sons—Bill Jr. and
Paul—are charged with maintaining these machines, the most-recently built of which
dates back to 1964. It’s their dedication that keeps this little piece of the
past alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After
I delivered this last news to Shannon, she paused before she spoke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Can
we please watch the rest of the show now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
obsession might have ended there, but a couple of weeks later I happened to be
visiting Chicago and I found myself killing time in the suburb of Downers
Grove, where I grew up. I wandered into the library and was greeted by the
sight of glass display cases where local kids had put their collections on
display. There was a toy car collection, a Pez dispenser collection, a doll
collection, and then this one, belonging to a “Teddy N”:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDUzAvorvgjdX5q60ikm1xaGgu-Ob8GElGwr-7nW6KCI4gVj6tGYpBuqd5LnvQ-oHT0QxV97a-UPWt6u_1rla5k2yXwi6oEI757ZEvv7luzrcugF_v2qpj4wkp4KUfxbOH_7oee_xTwbq/s1600/Teddy+N+01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDUzAvorvgjdX5q60ikm1xaGgu-Ob8GElGwr-7nW6KCI4gVj6tGYpBuqd5LnvQ-oHT0QxV97a-UPWt6u_1rla5k2yXwi6oEI757ZEvv7luzrcugF_v2qpj4wkp4KUfxbOH_7oee_xTwbq/s320/Teddy+N+01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I don’t have any Mold-a-Rama
animals any more, but even at its height, my collection would have paled in
comparison to his. In mine, animals were always in some state of injury—the
panther's tail missing, the gorilla’s hand snapped off, the elephant’s base
cracked. And it wasn’t nearly as comprehensive; I’m embarrassed to say that I
had no vehicles and not even a single dinosaur (somehow, I was in my twenties
before I ever visited the Field Museum). And I certainly didn’t have (but would
have fiercely coveted) this boss Komodo Dragon:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyr6efx6IHmgo6QRCgjJOrxpNXEswLvE-pH3gCci1rxNfShuJ4JOHj7isvXBDFuSIcolnEK0WXyRFxpDWuLYoUb-tGN_gMg0zxTQzDebxlDvoHiLVP4e1NqQy_OjEO9zdaR3Y_w2EsB0I/s1600/Teddy+N+02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyr6efx6IHmgo6QRCgjJOrxpNXEswLvE-pH3gCci1rxNfShuJ4JOHj7isvXBDFuSIcolnEK0WXyRFxpDWuLYoUb-tGN_gMg0zxTQzDebxlDvoHiLVP4e1NqQy_OjEO9zdaR3Y_w2EsB0I/s320/Teddy+N+02.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I don’t know anything about Teddy
N. other than his name (though, based on his writing, I can ballpark his age),
but I have a feeling that we would be great friends, he and I.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Needless to say, I
immediately texted pictures of Teddy N.’s collection to Shannon with the words
“SEE?!!” I felt vindicated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Alas,
the feeling was short-lived. She texted back a blunt, withering question: “Why
can’t you be interested in normal things?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
She’s
referring, of course, to my obsession with “junk” (her word, not mine) from the
past—comic books, record albums, sports cards, monster/superhero models. In
what has become an ongoing <s>haranguing</s> conversation, she suggests that I
just get rid of the stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At these moments, I could use a friend like Teddy N.
But I have to do without him and explain that these things aren’t junk; they’re
valuable artifacts of the past. My past. Because, really, so much of my
past—like anyone’s—is either going or already gone. Those collections are a way
to hold on to something. That’s why I’ve bought back issues of some of the
comics I had as a kid (but that my mom threw out)—especially <a href="http://noeasywriter.blogspot.com/2013/06/man-of-steel-ill-take-hulk-smash.html" target="_blank">old issues of <i>The Incredible Hulk</i></a>, and why <a href="http://noeasywriter.blogspot.com/2013/11/heroes-and-monsters.html" target="_blank">I’ve bought and builtmodels I had as a kid</a>, and why Shannon has caught
me more than once spending the better part of an afternoon watching 1970s TV
themes on Youtube.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
don’t imagine that Teddy N. is reading this, but if he is, I hope that he
listens to what I have to tell him. Keep that collection safe. As you grow up,
move it from place to place with you, and don’t ever rent an apartment or buy a
house without making sure that there’s room for it somewhere. If it’s important
enough to you now to let the good folks at the Downers Grove Public Library put
it on display, then it’s going to be important to you later on. Trust me on
this.</div>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> But
something tells me that Teddy N. is the kind of kid that knows this already.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-83185890141139392912015-07-16T18:29:00.000-07:002015-07-17T06:12:16.116-07:00Putting the Comics into Comic-Con<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3Ds8VMTnvp-0HQHQL9g7_Wpgq32OrR-vfY1DQQoOvmcSI5Cyud8Z9-kgqToQqUQlEETXnOhGuFj-M72E334DtKmQyupVC-TcLtXcT8PsUlzS_uDU9mF-xmnJ8Z2LtKgld3p-beVMvL6t/s1600/IMG_2387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3Ds8VMTnvp-0HQHQL9g7_Wpgq32OrR-vfY1DQQoOvmcSI5Cyud8Z9-kgqToQqUQlEETXnOhGuFj-M72E334DtKmQyupVC-TcLtXcT8PsUlzS_uDU9mF-xmnJ8Z2LtKgld3p-beVMvL6t/s320/IMG_2387.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> Unless
you’re one of the 130,000 or so people who annually attend it, San Diego’s
Comic-Con has probably been packaged to you in the media (assuming that you’re
even interested in such things) as a four-day bacchanal of superhero movies,
television shows, and cosplayers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And
to some extent, it is. I’ve been going to Comic-Con for the last eighteen years
(a number dwarfed by many Con-goers, I assure you), and in that time I’ve seen
the attendance triple and the convention center undergo a major expansion—none
of which was due to a growing interest in <i>comics</i>, per se. It’s been due
to the increasing number of movie and television stars, studios, and fans in
attendance. Two of the biggest draws this year were for movies that won’t open
until 2016 (and if you’re waiting for a plug for them, then this probably isn’t
the blog post for you).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
While outsiders get a pretty one-dimensional view of Comic-Con, the truth is
that the convention is many things to many people (if you’re interested in the
range of the “Comic-Con experience”—and the Con’s shift in focus over the
years—then you should check out Morgan Spurlock’s 2011 documentary, <i>Comic-Con
Episode IV: A Fan’s Hope</i>). To me, Comic-Con is about the comics, though I'll admit that <span style="line-height: 200%;">I appreciate a good star-sighting and take copious pictures of the cosplayers. M</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">any people—including
insiders—have been sounding the death knell for comics at the Con, but I still saw
plenty to command interest. So here’s a rundown of some titles that more people
should be reading—titles that scored either awards or panels (or both) at this
year’s Comic-Con:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77DO52Ks_FS3-1xhadWu6rZDEO4fK_nmQayZ4b2MTluvLLqSAH_9heO1s7OG24n08VAeNi6o1VZPJLfGTc7dXCyJsshE5ZU5CM9Sf-vizWoFQuV9iFhOMy_YNt6vr6DFOxDXb0RS6WDGu/s1600/Green+Arrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77DO52Ks_FS3-1xhadWu6rZDEO4fK_nmQayZ4b2MTluvLLqSAH_9heO1s7OG24n08VAeNi6o1VZPJLfGTc7dXCyJsshE5ZU5CM9Sf-vizWoFQuV9iFhOMy_YNt6vr6DFOxDXb0RS6WDGu/s320/Green+Arrow.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Let’s get the biggies—DC and
Marvel—out of the way. First up is <i>Green Arrow</i>. Or, more accurately, <i>Green
Arrow #41</i>, which starts a (hopefully long) run by one of my favorite
writers, <a href="http://benjaminpercy.com/" target="_blank">Benjamin Percy</a>.
Known primarily as a novelist (<i>Red Moon</i>, <i>The Deadlands</i>),
Percy is bringing his unique sensibility (read: sophisticated horror) to one of
DC’s canonical titles. Only two issues into his run, Percy and artist Patrick
Zircher have already established a dark, chilling tone to the world of Oliver
Queen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKRZ7QgbqfDvGYUbgk-E_Bz7loGMKbQjaTk3r7_eRGiC6MlXPKkmu0qrzhvAwmUNInFdxME3YnvdfEgaXNNnRBK3zwQc2onldnL5LE4qu6Ozyep0uPpZ6AXDuRvf9UmhQiShpeyTSU_mH/s1600/Ms.+Marvel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKRZ7QgbqfDvGYUbgk-E_Bz7loGMKbQjaTk3r7_eRGiC6MlXPKkmu0qrzhvAwmUNInFdxME3YnvdfEgaXNNnRBK3zwQc2onldnL5LE4qu6Ozyep0uPpZ6AXDuRvf9UmhQiShpeyTSU_mH/s320/Ms.+Marvel.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
On the Marvel side, I recommend one
of the most exciting books out right now, <i>Ms. Marvel</i>. In this iteration,
the titular hero’s secret identity is Kamala Khan, a Pakistani-American
teenager living in New Jersey (and who happens to be the first Muslim character
to command her own title). Writer <a href="http://gwillowwilson.com/" target="_blank">G. Willow Wilson</a> and (usual)
artist Adrian Alphona have created a smart and engaging character here, and
they’re using the title to explore not only the complexities of being a
teenager, but also the complexities of identity in all its forms, including
religious. Two quick asides. First, <a href="http://tribune.com.pk/story/828407/marvel-comics-muslim-superhero-fights-racist-bus-ads-in-san-francisco/" target="_blank">images of Ms. Marvel were used to protestanti-Muslim ads on San Francisco buses</a>. Second, this cutie:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh67GQKhnSdy3Oxk9Wy8zmQcq5HjHui8si1sxSmDRdQbEBcEEHTvSBAYBEXqj0qF-BaYryI3msCEeKll_fCYs1fLIbPE1LDXmk-0ySMnuPaisocVWca0XN9bwCANYOBXalS_3lO_yYzcmA/s1600/IMG_2389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh67GQKhnSdy3Oxk9Wy8zmQcq5HjHui8si1sxSmDRdQbEBcEEHTvSBAYBEXqj0qF-BaYryI3msCEeKll_fCYs1fLIbPE1LDXmk-0ySMnuPaisocVWca0XN9bwCANYOBXalS_3lO_yYzcmA/s320/IMG_2389.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
She was the darling of a couple of
panels I attended at Comic-Con, including the packed house at “The Women of
Marvel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRnZp_jOjC5QQxuMqMqLj1JstAG_U_93_nkxBtKxKdHL7peH7x3DUR3MWGp2ZU33JFn7ckSPJUhkH9cCbFFQCxn-UYl1Jsp8EILygKsxL3taEMG_sFXOjwfhn_tqcxnxRYEQmzx4qzadc/s1600/Bitch+Planet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRnZp_jOjC5QQxuMqMqLj1JstAG_U_93_nkxBtKxKdHL7peH7x3DUR3MWGp2ZU33JFn7ckSPJUhkH9cCbFFQCxn-UYl1Jsp8EILygKsxL3taEMG_sFXOjwfhn_tqcxnxRYEQmzx4qzadc/s320/Bitch+Planet.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
While we’re on the subject of women
in comics, there’s Image Comics’ <i>Bitch Planet</i>. Written by <a href="http://kellysue.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Kelly SueDeConnick</a> and drawn by Valentine DeLandro, this comic is an
in-your-face feminist reclamation of the “women in prison” genre, and it gets
better with each issue. As an added bonus, DeConnick and DeLandro have a lot of
fun with the ads and columns at the end of each book. Definitely a title to
watch.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprKAvkyaHKqIr5Uy6ygwgrN5BqRoVC0EeRaiSXtG_FxkDBDFUnneY-Mu7jmU9N3gO8w0Wt9-lTSgnlEOF8-Ucky6RAUpQyMIKyqfrhZ3otoAwiB_L43OQGStDX1SwXsPTkRuJ48V-UEBn/s1600/Saga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprKAvkyaHKqIr5Uy6ygwgrN5BqRoVC0EeRaiSXtG_FxkDBDFUnneY-Mu7jmU9N3gO8w0Wt9-lTSgnlEOF8-Ucky6RAUpQyMIKyqfrhZ3otoAwiB_L43OQGStDX1SwXsPTkRuJ48V-UEBn/s320/Saga.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Also from Image—which has firmly
established itself as the most interesting of the mainstream publishers—is <i>Saga</i>,
from writer Brian K. Vaughan and artist <a href="http://fionastaples.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Fiona Staples</a>. I’m not a
huge sci-fi/fantasy guy, but this story of on-the-run star-crossed lovers from
warring planets (as narrated by their baby) succeeds at hooking both the gut
and the brain. I’m sure that somewhere there are adaptation talks going on, and
I’m sure that the result will be yet another example of awful CGI bombast. <i>Saga </i>has also won the
Eisner for “Best Ongoing Series” three years running.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUi0panTheRI1v14uZBT332joqxMt5jgDCPsgmcmX3tksv3ao2hxu0zJjAqVZK2Rxgi1Czzrpyxaeoxm8LCNo5gg4AVb1pAZ9XxpxU0OgNPW-9nLBCnLar38Kj6PO4SZhlpP4Si1e84F9K/s1600/Eightball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUi0panTheRI1v14uZBT332joqxMt5jgDCPsgmcmX3tksv3ao2hxu0zJjAqVZK2Rxgi1Czzrpyxaeoxm8LCNo5gg4AVb1pAZ9XxpxU0OgNPW-9nLBCnLar38Kj6PO4SZhlpP4Si1e84F9K/s320/Eightball.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
From Fantagraphics this
year is the two-volume edition of Dan Clowes’s <i>Eightball</i>. While the book
carries a hefty price tag, it’s worth every penny (if you can afford it). These
hardbacks come packaged in a slipcase, and they reprint issues one through eighteen
of the legendary comic—which, not incidentally, was one of the titles I
discovered in graduate school that hooked me on the amazing possibilities of
the medium. Clowes is a true master of comics, and this collection of his early work is not to be missed. Also check out <i>David Boring</i>, <i>Ice Haven</i>, and <i>The Death-Ray</i>, which appeared in the pages of <i>Eightball </i>but are not (as Clowes points out in his introductory notes) included in this set.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqx0qzTEHilEtG9DDfvNJKbWrpejO3mviOn2mIK9TEASNgeepj8ZwJz6U-HMDauq2qSd6XtXPeETye2WHFVg8n-AVNDQ35wjiTs6gkCJlFD16N8oFggZ_Ij4jbaYmRRZYmbXGnnN5BUMS8/s1600/This+One+Summer.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqx0qzTEHilEtG9DDfvNJKbWrpejO3mviOn2mIK9TEASNgeepj8ZwJz6U-HMDauq2qSd6XtXPeETye2WHFVg8n-AVNDQ35wjiTs6gkCJlFD16N8oFggZ_Ij4jbaYmRRZYmbXGnnN5BUMS8/s320/This+One+Summer.jpeg" width="227" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
These last two (okay, three)
graphic novels are ones that I haven’t yet read but plan to shortly. The first
is Mariko and Jillian Tamaki’s <i>This One Summer</i>, <a href="http://www.alsc.ala.org/blog/2015/03/lets-talk-about-caldecott-this-one-summer/" target="_blank">a coming-of-age storythat has received both critical acclaim and some undeserved notoriety</a>. I had heard about its excellence before Comic-Con, but it wasn’t until I
attended a panel on banned comics put on by the <a href="http://cbldf.org/" target="_blank">Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (CBDLF)</a> did I find out that <i>This One Summer</i> has been the target of
censorship.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On Saturday morning I attended one
of the most stirring panels I’ve ever seen at Comic-Con. The focus was <a href="http://www.topshelfcomix.com/catalog/congressman-john-lewis" target="_blank">TopShelf’s <i>March </i>trilogy, written by Congressman John Lewis and Andrew Aydin and illustrated by Nate Powell</a>. The books (volumes one and two are currently available; book three comes out next year) cover the life of Lewis
and his struggles for civil and human rights. At the panel, Lewis spoke
passionately about the importance of nonviolent revolution as a way to combat
our society’s inequalities and injustices—a lesson he learned directly from
Martin Luther King, Jr. As he spoke of his hope for the younger generation to
carry this message forward, I couldn’t help but think of my two sons, both of
whom are much more engaged in the issues of the day than I was at their age. At
the conclusion of the panel (which was packed), Congressman Lewis asked
everyone to walk with him down to the exhibition hall floor, where he and Aydin
and Powell signed copies of their book. Here are a few shots:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7oah9oh3RY6-glufC2_SY5LsIP5uRIaybk0TA1H4ozGCOeTHmA7wYWhb2D-rIu38CRPyackwpb-OjhNMpXVLm8guj9PdBPImxQ47IzGvpAOPY1432bA-pwWC2-GqzY0sXvcMsQSQNVOM/s1600/IMG_2368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7oah9oh3RY6-glufC2_SY5LsIP5uRIaybk0TA1H4ozGCOeTHmA7wYWhb2D-rIu38CRPyackwpb-OjhNMpXVLm8guj9PdBPImxQ47IzGvpAOPY1432bA-pwWC2-GqzY0sXvcMsQSQNVOM/s320/IMG_2368.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w-unesvMVpRzwnDbZHJg42pImSVV_eNlmWvWfmOsY_h5yhUrnyHq4KZWLTWDVuX6OBxrG5fYK2RanWaHy62CGvjN09QKvhVkRhiWzU82rFyuFj24U8CJuKGFENQDBJ4oWONMyZhmZepT/s1600/IMG_2369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w-unesvMVpRzwnDbZHJg42pImSVV_eNlmWvWfmOsY_h5yhUrnyHq4KZWLTWDVuX6OBxrG5fYK2RanWaHy62CGvjN09QKvhVkRhiWzU82rFyuFj24U8CJuKGFENQDBJ4oWONMyZhmZepT/s320/IMG_2369.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDCT4umgxsuT0KRWuNJ4XpILxpbzlvGjJTGBDDcfPQxtc6ozjZ1PH3StuJKCbOnVa5_ZLgveMlu4HWK9PlcBQkDiRlRuUjW5zgy5kVdVi7FfH67NwoJ1iCxYI-0Z3R7CwLtCUpdDHvlgC/s1600/IMG_2383.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDCT4umgxsuT0KRWuNJ4XpILxpbzlvGjJTGBDDcfPQxtc6ozjZ1PH3StuJKCbOnVa5_ZLgveMlu4HWK9PlcBQkDiRlRuUjW5zgy5kVdVi7FfH67NwoJ1iCxYI-0Z3R7CwLtCUpdDHvlgC/s320/IMG_2383.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
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The
last thing I want to mention is that many see Comic-Con as a haven for fanboys
and fangirls, but there’s actually a thriving academic presence there as well.
Aside from the many sessions aimed at (and created by) teachers and librarians,
the <a href="http://comicsartsconference.wp.txstate.edu/" target="_blank">Comic Arts Conference</a> has been integrated with the programming
at Comic-Con for over twenty years and is a place where comics scholars share
their work </div>
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with other academics and fans alike. One frequent presenter at the
Comic Arts Conference (and friend of mine) is Dr. Charles Hatfield, author of <i>Hand
of Fire</i> and professor at California State University, Northridge (CSUN). At
Sunday morning’s annual “Tribute to Jack Kirby” panel, Charles announced that
he’ll be curating <a href="http://www.csun.edu/mike-curb-arts-media-communication/art-galleries" target="_blank">“Comic Book Apocalypse: The Graphic World of Jack Kirby,” anexhibit of 100 original pieces by Jack Kirby that will appear at the CSUN artgallery from August 24th to October 10th</a>. If you’re
anywhere in the Los Angeles area, you should check it out.</div>
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So
that’s it from this year’s Comic-Con. The city of San Diego recently completed
a deal to keep the convention at least through 2018 (at the likely expense of
the Chargers, no less). I don’t know what the future holds, but if the comics rewards are as rich as they were this year, I’ll
continue to set aside whatever five summer days this particular circus comes to town.</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-89985689765933818402015-07-03T15:10:00.000-07:002015-07-03T15:10:10.148-07:00Do You Have the Time?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Jesus
Christ, why are we so early?!!”</div>
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I
can’t remember where Shannon and I were going during this particular outburst,
but it hardly matters. What I am sure of is that we were in my car, because at
some point in all of the trips we take in my car, I hear some version of the
above.</div>
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“It’s
my clock,” I say. “Remember?”</div>
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“Oh
yeah. Why haven’t you fixed that yet?”</div>
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What
I haven’t fixed yet is the time. For the uninitiated who don’t have a personal
time-telling device, traveling in my car can be disorienting. A little work is
required.</div>
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But it’s really
pretty simple. Currently, if you want to know what time it is in my car, you
just add one hour and then subtract four to seven minutes. In the fall, when
Daylight Savings Time begins (or is it when Daylight Savings Time ends? I can
never keep that straight), you just subtract four to seven minutes. Actually,
by then, it might be more like five to eight minutes. Or six to nine.</div>
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Part
of the problem is that my clock is on my car stereo, and there is nothing
intuitive about changing the settings. So why not check the manual? you might
reasonably ask. Well, I bought the car used, and the stereo was an after-market
addition by the previous owner, so there’s nothing in the manual about it. I
figured this out the first time Daylight Savings Time began (or ended).</div>
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But I’m nothing if
not resourceful. I found my car stereo’s manual online and printed the “Setting
the Clock” pages, which are now nestled securely in my glove compartment. And,
for a while, I would dutifully haul them out whenever Daylight Savings Time
began (or ended) or when the clock’s naturally hurried pace reached the five or
six minutes-ahead-of-the-generally-accepted-time.</div>
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But then I
stopped.</div>
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My
kids were the first to notice. As befitting their respective personalities, my
younger son, Tony, was okay with it. For my older son, Nick, it’s been another
story.</div>
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Here’s
a quick and relevant story about Nick: one morning I watched him eat breakfast.
It was pretty basic—a bowl of Oat Squares in milk. Before he dug in, he went
through a whole little process where he tamped down the cereal with his spoon
so that everything was as level as possible and the milk-to-cereal surface
tension was uniform across the bowl. He started at the edges of the bowl,
worked his way to the center, and then gave an adjustment tap or two in a few
stubborn spots. It took nearly a full minute.</div>
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“What.
Are. You. Doing?”</div>
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He
looked up as if I’d caught him with unmatched socks.</div>
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“Nothing,”
he said. <i>Tap tap tap</i>. “Prepping my cereal.”</div>
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Needless
to say, my imprecise clock is particularly vexing to him (I should also mention
here, as long as I’m in full “parental embarrassment” mode, that he sleeps with
his watch on). He’s offered to fix it, to bring my clock into tight and proper
alignment with the scientific community’s best calculations of the earth’s
rotation, but I won’t let him. It’s important to me that clock stays a little
out of alignment. It’s a reminder.</div>
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My clock reminds
me that I’m not in control. I can plan and organize and work to figure every
angle—all skills I have in abundance—but in the end, things can still go
sideways. I’m not in control, and I don’t ever want to live in the illusion
that I am. There are many examples of this, but I keep coming back to the
obvious: ever since the early 1990s, I have been exercising regularly and
eating relatively well, and guess what? I still got cancer.</div>
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Twice.</div>
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That
doesn’t mean I’ve stopped exercising or watching what I eat. Both things make
me feel good, and I like feeling good. But I don’t fool myself into believing
that they’re guarantees of anything. The truth is, we may know what time it is,
but all of us run on a secret clock whose time is hidden, even from us.</div>
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“But
Rocco,” you might say, “isn’t your little metaphor flawed? After all, you’re
the one keeping the car clock the way it is. You really <i>are</i> in control,
but you’re choosing not to exercise your power.”</div>
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Um,
hey, here’s an idea—shut up.</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-27080233651777140932015-06-23T15:25:00.000-07:002015-06-24T10:01:07.888-07:00Some Good News<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been on a brief hiatus. Last fall I took over as
department chair, and I’ve been busy figuring out my new duties, at least one
of which is to figure out how to sleep during meetings without calling
attention to myself (hint—it’s easy; that’s what <i>everyone</i> is doing).</div>
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Anyway, I’ll be back with more posts soon, but I wanted to
get something quick out to share the good news—my book, <i>That Hidden Road</i>,
just won the San Diego Book Award in the “Unpublished Memoir” category. I was
selected as a finalist earlier in the spring, but I didn’t want to say anything
until they selected the winners (<a href="http://www.sdbookawards.com/" target="_blank">a complete list of which can be found here</a>).</div>
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Parts of <i>That Hidden Road</i> have appeared on this blog,
and I’ve been fortunate to publish a couple of stand-alone chapters (in
slightly different form) in the journals <i>Midwestern Gothic</i> and the <i>Georgetown
Review</i>. My job now is to get the whole thing published. There have been
some close calls (stories in themselves), but no go. Maybe now luck is on my side…</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-88993789688141545762014-12-21T17:56:00.000-08:002014-12-22T06:55:16.390-08:00A Year in the LifeI just wrapped up the fall semester, and it occurred to me that it was very different from my previous two semesters of teaching.<br />
<br />
Mainly because I felt like me.<br />
<br />
One year and two months ago, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. I had surgery in October of 2013 and then began twelve weeks of chemotherapy that stretched from November, 2013, through January, 2014. In March of 2014 I had another surgery--this one pretty major--and a complication developed that didn't resolve itself until late May.<br />
<br />
The chemo and that second surgery really kicked my ass. I lost my hair and bloated up through chemo, and then I started to waste away gradually and then rapidly after my surgery and as I dealt with my compromised lymph system. At one point, I weighed a little over 150 pounds, which I haven't weighed since I was about fifteen. I told my classes last fall and last spring that they only had about 80% of me on those days that I was able to make it in. Eighty percent <i>at best</i>, which wasn't very often.<br />
<br />
The worst part of those eight months was not feeling like myself. My body--and mind, at times--had been hijacked and replaced with a lesser, confused, infirm version. Rocco negative 2.0.<br />
<br />
During that whole time, I took a selfie a day. Sometimes more than one (like when I shaved my rapidly balding head). When I was nauseated and tired, it was hard to do; I didn't really want to look at myself any more than I had to.<br />
<br />
I stopped taking the pictures a while ago, roughly around the time that I started to feel as close to normal as I'm going to get. So now I finally got around to putting all of those pictures together into a short video chronicle of a very tough year.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8ejneG-Ngk&feature=youtu.be" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8ejneG-Ngk&feature=youtu.be</a></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxVfWOW2OCIAdHosSFlMrUdpJN_rMZInUSHdYoVVy6V0DuD_F8x0b-JIZtAPCIMu0dUuvub1exFb8nMa_xZbQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-69376307610451075762014-06-11T12:55:00.000-07:002015-06-23T15:09:26.324-07:00Judging Books by Their Covers<div class="MsoNormal">
So it’s been a rough two-and-a-half months (that's about the time
since my last post). The post-surgery complication I’d been dealing
with—chylous ascites, or fluid collection in the abdomen—didn’t resolve as
quickly as either my doctors or I had hoped. During this time, I’ve been on a
strict no-fat diet and been pretty uncomfortable (massive fluid collection will
do that). To be honest, right now I don’t feel like reliving this time, except
to say these few things:</div>
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I’ll never again take for granted putting on my own shoes
and socks, going to the bathroom (normally), and taking a nice deep breath.</div>
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A no-fat diet is brutal.</div>
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A no-fat diet for two and a half months is very brutal.</div>
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A no-fat diet for two and a half months when you’re having
bi-weekly drainings (“paracentesis,” for all you medical procedure junkies) to
the tune of six and seven and even <i>nine</i> liters of liquid is very, very
brutal.</div>
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For most of the past several weeks, I’ve felt like this
(minus the purple):</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkXXjXK9_2vC8OYrZ1mHqASP3vQmbg3Thjyp5lSGPMF1-JQMG_88QZirugC-mj1mAwUoMvGC4WQoO6DGcCJMkpt1HNOXZ9I0iFoQe2pmN88Vjb-6Ay2L_Zdpqr0GsLNeohyrxcWjE-cPr/s1600/WillyWonka_thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkXXjXK9_2vC8OYrZ1mHqASP3vQmbg3Thjyp5lSGPMF1-JQMG_88QZirugC-mj1mAwUoMvGC4WQoO6DGcCJMkpt1HNOXZ9I0iFoQe2pmN88Vjb-6Ay2L_Zdpqr0GsLNeohyrxcWjE-cPr/s1600/WillyWonka_thumb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Incidentally, a recurring scene for me since last October
has been a doctor outlining some new thing to be done to my body and then
finishing with the sentence, “It’s a fairly simple procedure” (the one
exception to this was my RPLND surgery, which my surgeon told me was “high
risk”). Anyway, my response to “It’s a fairly simple procedure” is “<i>Every</i>
procedure is simple when it’s not happening to you.”</div>
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I’m over all of this now—I’m no longer eating egg whites and
beans as my main source of protein, I’m no longer leaking like the Cubs
infield, and I’m no longer waddling around like the Penguin. Instead, I’m
focused on trying to gain back the thirty or so pounds that I’ve lost, so there
may be a fetishistically-rendered food post in the near future.</div>
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I’ll write about these post-surgery weeks at some point, but
right now I’d rather start a new story.</div>
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Which brings me to books. Or rather, to book covers.</div>
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The other day I was in Target when I wandered by a book rack
and saw that Gillian Flynn’s <i>Gone Girl</i>—a novel I’d been eager to
read—had finally come out in paperback. What’s more, the cover was a
reproduction of the original hardcover’s—stark, black with red lettering, with
a few stray wisps of hair invading the image from the left. Overall, a sleek
and intriguing cover.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtKiYMoU6sB9BZLbQ_B-37ZTYCAcN9_A97AIm7OBxIyPy8as0Ii48KpEupvsXV2lVxTdBp1pV_MHYiPS1SBaRLZiBFk2-Jh1ehIbwnScHHD7XO6jp-JKBgigqToOrL5e_hRFgR63neRqED/s1600/Gone+Girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtKiYMoU6sB9BZLbQ_B-37ZTYCAcN9_A97AIm7OBxIyPy8as0Ii48KpEupvsXV2lVxTdBp1pV_MHYiPS1SBaRLZiBFk2-Jh1ehIbwnScHHD7XO6jp-JKBgigqToOrL5e_hRFgR63neRqED/s1600/Gone+Girl.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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I bought it immediately, but not just because I’d been
waiting for the paperback. The bigger reason was that I didn’t want to get
stuck later with a “movie” cover that will no doubt feature Ben Affleck’s
impossibly square jaw.</div>
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Which brings us to what is perhaps my top pet peeve.</div>
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There are many bad people in the world, and for the most
part, we have punishments in place to deal with their bad deeds. But there is
one group of evildoers that have for far too long gone unpunished.</div>
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The people responsible for movie tie-in covers.</div>
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I find few things more depressing than seeing some movie
star’s picture plastered on the front of a book cover. This one here, for instance, makes me throw up a
little bit in my mouth every time I see it:</div>
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Despite <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2014/06/against_ya_adults_should_be_embarrassed_to_read_children_s_books.html" target="_blank">what Ruth Graham wrote earlier this week aboutadults reading young adult novels</a>, I really want to read John Green’s <i>The
Fault in Our Stars</i>. But I will say this: if the only copy I can get my
hands on has Shailene Woodley and Ansel Elgort looking at each other all
googly-eyed on the front cover, then I think I’ll pass.<br />
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NO</div>
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YES </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Pd-XlJij4BZWdNUJYUbgfZdYclbflKIOyzHQWFJAyPPOCom3acs7ZtJ0rlDIbrblNb6FEFzQQN49YQz6xFMFk6lIXdPGzGbtgiEkCQg1ETE7kDQ1_9dcZX0Z4KGmqkmbIlNrdASvpm4j/s1600/TFIOS+Regular.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Pd-XlJij4BZWdNUJYUbgfZdYclbflKIOyzHQWFJAyPPOCom3acs7ZtJ0rlDIbrblNb6FEFzQQN49YQz6xFMFk6lIXdPGzGbtgiEkCQg1ETE7kDQ1_9dcZX0Z4KGmqkmbIlNrdASvpm4j/s1600/TFIOS+Regular.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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</div>
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Does this sound unreasonable? I don’t care.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“But how,” one might ask, “can the cover possibly change the
words inside? Isn’t it the same book?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, it’s not. Books with movie covers are different because
those covers change our experience of reading them. First, those covers remind
us that the story inside is a commodity, and once you finish it, you’re ready
to consume it in yet another venue—your local movie theater. And second, those
covers affect how we envision the actors. Instead of creating their own images
of Jay Gatsby, new readers of Fitzgerald’s classic will picture Leonardo
DiCaprio.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now don’t get me wrong; I don’t have anything against film
adaptations. I disagree with the oft-voiced maxim, “The book is always better.”
It isn’t. <i>The Godfather</i>, <i>Jaws</i>, <i>Goodfellas</i>. All better. I
don’t even subscribe to the belief that good books make lousy movies; <i>The
French Lieutenant’s Woman</i>, <i>The Sweet Hereafter</i>, <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>
are all excellent movies adapted from excellent books. But I don’t want to be
reminded, when I’m reading, that there’s another version out there waiting for
me and my money. And I don’t want to be told whom to picture as the characters.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Books deserve care, especially with their covers. That’s our
first engagement with the author’s story. Consider this one, for Bonnie Jo
Campbell’s <i>Once Upon a River</i> (the book I’m currently reading):</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq607-DqgvJTjTRZ3VLalrWAEEpBBXJZyTOiCM2xmvjIE2cjLvwB16wlfSvQeXI-aSvvcxOIZxCJJeEjpA0lCWYugp1sSLrUe4SSZHEf4pPRbPSgLBcoiiiFstQUcCvW9gV2e1GINf6x8i/s1600/Once+Upon+a+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq607-DqgvJTjTRZ3VLalrWAEEpBBXJZyTOiCM2xmvjIE2cjLvwB16wlfSvQeXI-aSvvcxOIZxCJJeEjpA0lCWYugp1sSLrUe4SSZHEf4pPRbPSgLBcoiiiFstQUcCvW9gV2e1GINf6x8i/s1600/Once+Upon+a+River.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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The novel is a coming-of-age story of Margo Crane, a poor
teenage girl who embarks on a journey up and down Michigan rivers after her
mother abandons her and her father is killed. The prose is gorgeous and the
perspective is third person, but the brilliance of the cover is how it subtly
positions the reader in Margo’s boat. We see the river and horizon over the
prow of her boat, through her eyes. If they ever make a movie out of this book,
you can bet that the cover will let the reader do no more than stare into the
face of some young actress.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Good covers don’t need to be elaborate, just evocative of
what’s inside. Even the cover for Cormac McCarthy’s <i>The Road</i> is deeply
connected to writer’s words. What better way to communicate the bleakness of
what’s waiting for the reader than this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTceFWCyR3gXlkgUtZM317ePjAXHv2hM4_SQn10iC0rSx_WL96DIObNBAP7sSh7KHeFAFvp3xhgaqS1ImFfingH26TwiklH5wXUGkrcCH9SBbvnQLNq_1VzdhUOkrGhs5mmmfoExZ0VXzK/s1600/The+Road+Real.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTceFWCyR3gXlkgUtZM317ePjAXHv2hM4_SQn10iC0rSx_WL96DIObNBAP7sSh7KHeFAFvp3xhgaqS1ImFfingH26TwiklH5wXUGkrcCH9SBbvnQLNq_1VzdhUOkrGhs5mmmfoExZ0VXzK/s1600/The+Road+Real.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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Which is infinitely better than this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UDyj5Ym3LOQh6iEywADK0gailoYR5mxXjBIDPqF3tmNZE5i705ZY1DltkbMevrwxzhNmgGlKGvHBFofOiSFz-h81pe4hWi9Eing65w2G6BvHPPPNc0U9kAU0CB02vGEQoEa2l9SfBkHl/s1600/The+Road+Movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UDyj5Ym3LOQh6iEywADK0gailoYR5mxXjBIDPqF3tmNZE5i705ZY1DltkbMevrwxzhNmgGlKGvHBFofOiSFz-h81pe4hWi9Eing65w2G6BvHPPPNc0U9kAU0CB02vGEQoEa2l9SfBkHl/s1600/The+Road+Movie.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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I mean, I like Viggo Mortensen just fine, but come on.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Oh sure</i>, some wiseass might remark. <i>So I suppose
that if you sold your bike book and they made a movie out of it and wanted to
print up ten thousand copies with a picture of whatever actor they trick into
playing you, you’d shout “No way!” Is that right?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I’ll tell you, Some Wiseass. I’m a man of principle.
I’m not someone who simply folds on his beliefs when a little cash is waved in
his f—wait, did you say <i>ten thousand</i> copies?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvetGToisbK95C-0d3oAXh65zgnaw189zvU7EgmOBWs0hiD-2nVE-WdlCQGtZ2yUORqbHbDSwZkbX0AQr_Z3WibBpZy968vDsfsPj5_vR_8bqiabR_yBR6K4kgzz9umjlRx9LS5NzMVJb/s1600/emily-litella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvetGToisbK95C-0d3oAXh65zgnaw189zvU7EgmOBWs0hiD-2nVE-WdlCQGtZ2yUORqbHbDSwZkbX0AQr_Z3WibBpZy968vDsfsPj5_vR_8bqiabR_yBR6K4kgzz9umjlRx9LS5NzMVJb/s1600/emily-litella.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--[endif]-->Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-89262953001045233102014-04-03T18:07:00.002-07:002014-04-09T13:12:06.183-07:00My Hospital Adventures, Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven’t read Part 1, you’ll want to begin <a href="http://noeasywriter.blogspot.com/2014/03/my-hospital-adventures-part-i.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>.</div>
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I came home from the hospital on the afternoon of Friday the
21<sup>st</sup>, feeling mighty proud of myself to be up and about only four
days removed from major surgery. Of course it was difficult to move around
easily—I wasn’t yet able to put on my socks and shoes—but my surgeon, Dr. K,
and his team of residents warned me that it would take some time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, I was still waiting for my plumbing to get fully
functional. Part of the problem was the pain I felt whenever I tried to go;
even deadened somewhat by the Percoset they gave me, it still hurt. The other
part of the problem was that everything felt really, really <i>tight</i>. My
stomach was swollen, but I’d been told it was due to the surgery. A lot of skin
and muscle had been cut and retracted, and it would take time for the swelling
to go down.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the weekend progressed, though, I wasn’t so sure. It
became harder to move around. Getting up off the couch was a major physical
feat, and I would get some sharp pains in my torso. They had told me to keep
walking, so I’d pace around but have to pause and concentrate to get a nice
full breath. At first I attributed it to some kind of gas buildup, but then, as
I lay in bed Friday night, my imagination took over. I envisioned my bladder
expanding into my other organs, restricting their functioning; I pictured my
bowels knotted up beyond function or repair. I could feel myself break into a
cold sweat of panic.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When a small breakfast of tea and grapefruit came back up, I
phoned the on-call urologist, and she told me to sip water throughout the day
and keep walking. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that day, I noticed that my legs were swelling right
above my sock line. A quick trip to the internet gave me the word edema, or
water retention. It was a common effect of surgery.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a relief, but relief was temporary because I was
really, really uncomfortable. I started to worry that I was retaining too much
water when I saw that I was bloating out in different parts of my body (more on
this later) and when I stepped on the scale to see it read 197 pounds—about
fifteen above my normal weight.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday was more of the same, so on Monday I spoke with Dr.
C, the Chief Urology Resident who was a member of my surgical team and had been
seeing me regularly the week before. I described my symptoms to him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well, I don’t hear anything really alarming, but why don’t
you come in today and we’ll have a look.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, down at the office, a nurse practitioner named Teresa inspected my belly.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“This looks like edema, but I’ll have the doctor come take a
look.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“There’s something else,” I said and then delivered those four
words that every nurse longs to hear: “My penis looks weird.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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She was unflappable and didn’t miss a beat. “What does it
look like?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I showed her, and she assured me that it, too, was just
water retention that would eventually go away. She left to go find my doctor.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few minutes later Dr. K walked in.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well first of all, there’s some good news,” he said.
“Everything we took out was mature teratoma. Totally benign.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that the pathology
had probably been completed, but I had not allowed myself to think about it.
Now here it was, and all the dread that had built up in my mind about it
evaporated in a flash. It’s tough to capture the joy of that moment. Shannon
and I looked at each other, and on cue our eyes welled up. I could feel my
throat go tight, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I had fully expected
the news to be completely different; I was convinced that they would see
something they didn’t like in the biopsy and that somehow—and I wasn’t at all
sure how—I would have to make it through three more rounds of chemo.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But no. No more chemo, no more cancer. Everything benign.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And suddenly everything between that very second and that
afternoon back in October when my oncologist walked into the exam room and
said, “Your numbers are up” just melted away, and I could feel, for the first
time in a long time, my life start to come back to me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even now, as I write this, the relief of that moment is so
powerful, so palpable, that I can feel the tears rising steady as a chant. <i>Cancer
free, cancer free, cancer free</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now let’s have a look at that belly,” Dr. K said. He poked
around a red patch that I hadn’t noticed before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There might be a little infection below the skin. I think
I’ll pull a couple of the staples so it can drain, and I’ll send you home with
wound care instructions.” He looked up at me and smiled. “After the big news,
you can handle that, right?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why don’t you hop up on the table.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been dreading the “staple removal” stage. It didn’t
look like they were coming out without some kind of fight, and I worried about
just how much of a fight they would put up. When I was in the hospital, I asked
one of the residents what it was like, and he said, “No big deal, not a
problem.” When I then asked him if he’d ever had staples taken out of him, he
looked at me sheepishly and said, “Well, no…”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lay down on the table, and Dr. K stood over me with the
removal tool that looked angular and sharp, like an angry metal bird who liked
to bite.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Having staples removed is not pleasant. It’s certainly not
the worst thing I encountered—not even close—but it’s not “no big deal.” Each
tug was accompanied by a sharp little pinch, and for the several staples that
got stuck on their way out, there was a little bit more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Dr. K removed a few down where the incision swerved
around my belly button, he took a cotton-tipped swab to probe the opening a
little.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then suddenly I was gushing fluid. Like cutting a hole
in a waterbed gushing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It burbled up out of the wound and spread down my pelvis and
sides. Dr. K and Teresa started ripping open gauze packages to staunch the
flow. At first he thought it was a pocket of infection draining, but it kept
coming. I made the mistake of looking down, and I could see that the bottom
part of my incision was gaping wide.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is a big wound,” Dr. K said evenly. “I’m going to want
to readmit you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Readmit me to the hospital?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sonofabitch</i> was what flashed through my mind. I was <i>this</i>
close to going home…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he started talking about a possible torn fascia, which
could be serious. He told me that if the fascia below was torn, they’d have to
reoperate to close it up. He asked me when I’d last eaten, and I told him that
I had a sandwich a few hours earlier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I need to look around in there, and to do that I need to
get rougher with you than I can here,” he said. “I’d like to get you in an OR
tomorrow morning.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The liquid kept coming, and I have to say that I finally
felt some relief from the pressure that had been building this weekend. Still,
though, it was a pretty messy. The gauze pads were useless; Teresa had gotten
towels which I held over my midsection, and both were getting soaked with this
pinkish-yellowish fluid. I just lay there as he told me that he’d get me
admitted and be right back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there I was, about to be readmitted, looking at (at
least) one more trip to the operating room. Once again I was dumbfounded at how
quickly things turn. A few minutes earlier I had been told I was free of cancer
and was halfway out the door and back to my life. Now, who knew what was
coming?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The curtain of the room parted and Dr. C came in. He’d
spoken to Dr. K and wanted to have a look of his own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It became quickly apparent that whereas Dr. K was reluctant
to “get rough” with me, Dr. C had no such compunction. He snapped on a glove
and started to probe my wound. And by “probe” I mean he really dug around in
there. I groaned and clutched at the exam table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s wrong?” he asked mildly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Uh, your goddamn FINGERS are in my BODY</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hurts,” I managed to squeeze out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not feeling a fascia tear,” he seemed to say more to
himself than to me. Then he went right back to digging around inside me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stopped and told me that he’d like to get something
called a wound vac on me when we got to my room. He explained what it was and
what it would do, but I was too distracted by the knifing sensation, which was
slow to ebb.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No surgery?” I croaked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was still panting when he returned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “I’m going
to pack your wound with a field dressing and then we’re going to walk briskly
over to the hospital. When we get to your room, we’ll get some pain meds in you
so that I can do a more thorough exam.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You mean like <i>walk</i> walk? Like literally walk?” That
“more thorough exam” part also stuck in my head, but I had to take things one
at a time here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at me. “Do you have a better idea?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had several, and not one of them involved me getting up on
my feet. I had made that walk before when I had some pre-op tests done. It was
about five minutes through a parking lot. I looked down at my body. I needed a
new towel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. C packed the wound and started layering big gauze pads
on top of me until my wound bulged to about the size of a softball. Then he
slapped a giant abdominal pad over it and taped the whole thing down tight. He
reached into a cabinet and tossed me a clean towel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You ready?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sweats were soaked almost to the knees, as was the back
of my shirt. I had a gaping, wound in my midsection that was gushing some kind
of fluid. And now I was supposed to get on my feet and walk “briskly” for about
three hundred yards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I looked at Dr. C, who had not a shred of doubt
that I was going to make that walk. Emboldened by his confidence in me, I hiked
up my soaking sweats, held the towel close over my dressing, and stood up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was a fast walker, and I did my best to keep up. It was a
little difficult, because we were barely out of the building when I could feel
that the dressing had given way and fluid was dripping down my leg. Halfway
across the parking lot I looked behind me and could see a little trail. We hit
the hospital lobby and made a beeline for Admissions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have a seat over there,” he said, and turned to one of the
admitting nurses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat down for a few minutes and considered my soaked lap. I
could feel the fluid rolling down my body, down my legs. When Dr. C called to
me, I stood up and cringed at the giant wet spot on the seat. A puddle
immediately began to collect on the floor between my legs. I looked over at the
one other person in the waiting room—a man who stared at me, wide-eyed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-g6eMHXyk12hG1GHC0wBkr-RNcTGanJ4yhSJeItgDJ38pyqn8fRdIQDqM1CIEXV-N4pcfCXi1iHWoaPmxmEGOwj9Jjg-a-lIH_27S6WNIraUJ2SUHB0lEOKGJt1cA4XAbIhHKxNeAgrY/s1600/IMG_1413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-g6eMHXyk12hG1GHC0wBkr-RNcTGanJ4yhSJeItgDJ38pyqn8fRdIQDqM1CIEXV-N4pcfCXi1iHWoaPmxmEGOwj9Jjg-a-lIH_27S6WNIraUJ2SUHB0lEOKGJt1cA4XAbIhHKxNeAgrY/s1600/IMG_1413.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hustled up to my room, where a nurse was waiting. He
inserted an IV and started some pain meds while Dr. C was fiddling with some
equipment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s have another look at that wound.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me confess here and now that I would not hold up under
torture. I always suspected as much, but I didn’t know for sure until I was on
the bed in my room and Dr. C had his fingers in my body again. The meds had
kicked in—I knew that much because my head was swimming—but it didn’t do much
against Dr. C’s insistent fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Everything feels pretty good,” he said, which I mistakenly
interpreted as meaning that he was finished. He wasn’t. He went back in twice
more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, he was done. He packed the open wound with some foam
and attached the wound vac, which was a little nozzle taped down tight over my
belly and attached by a long thin hose to a portable unit. Once he got it
fastened and turned on, pinkish liquid started to fill the reservoir tank on
the unit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9vwfzxOyUSJMC2nOLOciQrG3PT81TNXpZLk9U1xqrtrHTQ7ep9geBnUN5sBdwG92Oglgm7riMpijzLy6qDgQRe7lmXhXsoN7FSPjcE9Gg00791b8wEffgviY70pj9Z_xq0YLE7GLsDoj/s1600/IMG_1416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9vwfzxOyUSJMC2nOLOciQrG3PT81TNXpZLk9U1xqrtrHTQ7ep9geBnUN5sBdwG92Oglgm7riMpijzLy6qDgQRe7lmXhXsoN7FSPjcE9Gg00791b8wEffgviY70pj9Z_xq0YLE7GLsDoj/s1600/IMG_1416.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpMHPJqU1JNG47VFthlNEokqYbBtcIYV67kxWe4ncLOIQq1l_6jOwDx7t7iOoyfoT9upzGfJT169OitDgurSVUNsVl-H4ljmzU9cddyFBgUthL_dJyk_X18nQCy8bbg7ImALBzZ2ywjT6/s1600/IMG_1417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpMHPJqU1JNG47VFthlNEokqYbBtcIYV67kxWe4ncLOIQq1l_6jOwDx7t7iOoyfoT9upzGfJT169OitDgurSVUNsVl-H4ljmzU9cddyFBgUthL_dJyk_X18nQCy8bbg7ImALBzZ2ywjT6/s1600/IMG_1417.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It filled fast. Five hundred milliliters in about twenty
minutes. When they changed the tank, they had to clamp off the suction, and a
few seconds after they did, I could feel liquid seeping out from the tape
around my wound and rolling down my body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I filled a lot of tanks that night. The first couple took
20-30 minutes, and then they held steady at about an hour each. At some point,
they brought in a big red box that said HAZARDOUS WASTE, where they deposited
the full tanks. I wondered about that “hazardous” part; I had, after all, left
a trail of this stuff across the parking lot and downstairs lobby, not to
mention the puddle in Admissions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once they analyzed the fluid, there was a diagnosis. I had
something called <i>chylous ascites</i> (KYE luss uh SITE eez), which was a
possible complication of this surgery. What happens is that the channels that
convey the lymphatic fluid get compromised during the surgery and don’t seal
up, leaving the fluid to continue to flow and collect in the body. It resolves
on its own, but timetables vary—days to months. It’s also exceedingly rare,
occurring in only about 2% of patients who have the surgery. I knew it was rare
because every doctor who visited me in the days that followed—Dr. K, Dr. C, a
resident named Josiah and a medical student named Dustin—went out of his way to
tell me just how rare it was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t sure what I should take away from that stat. Why
should I care that it happens to <i>only</i> 2%? All that mattered right now
was that it was happening to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, I continued to leak like a tanker run aground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was weird watching those tanks fill up. Those times when
our bodies betray us have to be the most disorienting sensations there are. Our
very identities come under siege, and from within no less—a civil war between
our mental and physical selves. We all face it at one point or another and to
varying degrees. Maybe we sweat uncontrollably in an interview or have a sudden
gas attack in a crowded elevator. Or maybe it’s more serious—some cells decide
to start growing and not stop. For sure, I’d been at war with my body since
last October, but this last bit here was too much. I lay in bed that night and
the next day and watched that fluid collect and collect with no end in sight,
and there was nothing I could do except put my head back, close my eyes, and
hiss, through clenched teeth, “<i>STOP LEAKING</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not very effective.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They put me on a thrice-daily shot of Octreotide, a hormone
that would reduce the production of the lymphatic fluid. They also put me on a
no-fat diet to help accomplish the same. That’s “no-fat” as in <i>zero</i> fat,
which is a lot different from “low-fat.” My meals consisted mainly of juice,
tea, skim milk, and a plate of something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheByMHquHEDv-ZJ4mnOvfA4GX9SPYc3ONglGX9GnrU8xuyrT_4uJEaxwYa4eG6K0mUemUmE348Q_3aV2kRzMsxwlKGxZOYxKM7IRdWyxULDVxlHKWl2vWDnpJsvmjCEzmbGuggQa0oSeik/s1600/IMG_1425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheByMHquHEDv-ZJ4mnOvfA4GX9SPYc3ONglGX9GnrU8xuyrT_4uJEaxwYa4eG6K0mUemUmE348Q_3aV2kRzMsxwlKGxZOYxKM7IRdWyxULDVxlHKWl2vWDnpJsvmjCEzmbGuggQa0oSeik/s1600/IMG_1425.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They also started to give me a tiny sip of something called
MCT oil every three hours, which extended through the night. So, every three
hours I’d be awakened to drink a tiny amount of oil.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, my leak slowed. The tanks started to take about
three hours to fill, and then on Tuesday night, they put a new one in that
didn’t fill until twelve hours later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Wednesday they removed the vac and packed the wound. I
kept walking but had to bring a towel along, because the dressing would only
hold up for about an hour before it needed to be changed again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My nurse that day, Juna, found wound bandages that were
little plastic bags with a spigot on the end. She figured this would work
better than gauze because when the bag filled up, I could just empty it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had to empty it twice that afternoon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around dinner time, Josiah came in with the new plan. I
would have a CT in the morning and they would insert a drain in my side. I
wasn’t crazy about the first part and even less enthused about the second. At
this point, however, I kept telling myself, <i>cancer-free</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The way I figured it, this was way more annoying than
dangerous. In my mind, Cancer was pissed that I won and was giving me one last
kick on my way out the door. If I handled everything that had come before, I
could handle this, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning when I woke up, the bag was almost
completely dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Josiah was surprised but wanted to see how I did after
eating and moving around. In the meantime, he canceled the CT.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After breakfast and countless laps through the hospital, the
bag remained dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Friday morning they decided to discharge me. Josiah came
in to go over some instructions. Something had occurred to me, and I wanted to
ask him about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So I have a question for you,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now I know this surgery is pretty rare, and this condition
is even more rare, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, are you guys a little excited about it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d expected to encounter an immediate denial and effusive
reassurances that my care was foremost in their minds, but he surprised me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yeah. That fluid was really something. I mean, to
actually <i>see</i> it. Most of us will just read about it in a textbook.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, glad to have helped out with their education.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he got down to the discharge instructions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“For the next two weeks, we want you to maintain a no-fat
diet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No problem.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Also, we want you to continue to take the oil every three
hours.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All right.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And you’ll need to give yourself a shot of Octreotide three
times a day. Your nurse will show you how to do that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Um, what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends Barb and Deb were visiting that morning, and I
immediately confessed my anxiety about giving myself a shot. They tried to come
up with possible solutions—driving to my doctor and having a nurse there do it,
talking with someone in the Nursing Department at our college—but the more I
thought about it, the more I decided that I
didn’t want to puss out before I even gave it a try.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My nurse that day, Sil, came in with some needles and saline
solution. Once she laid out the materials and I saw them right in front of me,
I felt myself starting to freeze up. But then I felt something else—something
gathering inside me. It wasn’t anger, exactly; it was more like a fed-upness
with things. I’d been poked, prodded, poisoned, scanned, injected, cut open,
and stapled up over these last several months, and I’d be damned if I was going
to let this last wrinkle get me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tugged my sweatshirt up and over my head. “Okay, let’s DO
this,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll spare the details of the self-injection, though I will
say that sticking a needle into my abdomen ranks very high on my list of things
that I hope to never have to do again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I’m back home, eating my zero-fat diet, drinking my
oil, changing the dressing on my wound, and giving myself a shot three times a
day. I’ve got an appointment next week that I hope will put an end to three of
these (I’ll still need to change the dressing), but if they have to go on a
little longer, I can do it. And if something else comes up and I need some
other procedure, I can do that, too. All of these scars have got to count for
something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-5705814385049245772014-03-31T19:08:00.002-07:002014-04-03T16:07:33.097-07:00My Hospital Adventures, Part I<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot has happened since I last checked in. At the time of
my last post, on March 8<sup>th</sup>, my surgery was still nine days away and
the real dread hadn’t yet set in. But when it came, it came gradually and then
rapidly, kind of like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigTGWhBCS1rKnP-eMAk1D-MyrectPEfj4aKWBaluWCajTn42uLw7yjjsluhaURSg6WnxdTEdz-G3bssHWx3TUMdMIJMsOi9IuYrYD61JX5weEYCYRx9IPicIcnRi0Od5hWudsLqM5QeR_/s1600/Rocco+Chart+of+Dread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigTGWhBCS1rKnP-eMAk1D-MyrectPEfj4aKWBaluWCajTn42uLw7yjjsluhaURSg6WnxdTEdz-G3bssHWx3TUMdMIJMsOi9IuYrYD61JX5weEYCYRx9IPicIcnRi0Od5hWudsLqM5QeR_/s1600/Rocco+Chart+of+Dread.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<!--[endif]--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hours just before surgery were the worst.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The procedure, even in its abbreviated form—RPLND—sounds
awful. All those letters. The full name is worse, of course. Retroperitoneal
Lymph Node Dissection. “High risk,” according to my surgeon and everything I
had been reading on the internet. Six hours on the table, an incision running
from my sternum to below my belly button, scalpels (and whatever else they use)
slicing around organs, nerves, and two major blood pipelines—the aorta and vena
cava.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I checked in at 5:30 on the morning of the seventeenth.
Outside the hospital it was dark and quiet; inside the hospital, the only
activity was from the few of us scheduled for surgery. Me and Shannon, an older
couple, and two women. It was easy to identify which person in each group was
headed for the table; told to wear “comfortable clothes,” we all opted for
sweats and slippers. After we handed over our insurance cards and got tagged
with wristbands, we shuffled over to the elevator and headed up to pre-op.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Prepping for surgery entails getting naked, being hooked up
to machines, and waiting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’re waiting to do something unpleasant, time does
funny things. It’s both longer and shorter than usual. At one point I lay there
for what seemed like an hour to see that only ten minutes had passed; another
time, the clock had jumped from 6:30 to 7 seemingly in the blink of an eye.
During all of this, I was visited by various people—all kinds of nurses,
members of my surgical team, anesthesiologists. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a certain point, you just have to give in and see
yourself as a piece of meat to be poked, prodded, moved around, cut open, and
put back together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Close to 7:20, they wheeled me into the OR, put an epidural
into my back, and not long after that I was asleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blinked myself back into awareness in the recovery room.
People were calling my name. I made no attempt to move, and nobody asked me to.
I couldn’t have even if I wanted because of a few new tethers—two more IV lines
(though they weren’t attached to anything), cables on my chest, an oxygen line
under my nose, leg massagers, and a catheter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They didn’t have a room ready for me, so I lay in recovery
for a few hours, over which time I became vaguely aware of a dull ache down my
middle. I had two triggers for pain—one upped the epidural and the other
Dialaudid, a painkiller. While I was there, they continued to wheel people in
from the operating room. The only one who made an impression on me must have
had some serious sedation based on her anesthesiologist’s half of their
conversation, the only half I could hear:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE! Wake UP!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE! Can you raise your right hand?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE! Raise your right hand!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE! Wake UP!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MICHELLE!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first day was all about immobility, and only partly
because of my huge incision. The drugs from the epidural had not quite
distributed themselves evenly, so my right side was way more numb than my left.
I couldn’t, in fact, really move my right leg at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in the first bed of a semi-private room. My roommate
was a gravelly voice on the other side of the curtain. I asked him how long
he’d been there, and he just said, “Long time.” Other than that, I only heard
him say “No” (in response to the nurse asking if he wanted to get out of bed),
“Pain meds” (in response to the nurse on the other end of his call button), and
“Nausea meds” (in response to the same).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When lunch came that first day, the voice croaked out,
apropos of nothing, “You should get the baked fish. I get it every day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re not giving me anything yet,” I said. “Not even ice
chips.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The baked fish is good. I get it every day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They said I might get some liquids tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Y’oughta try that baked fish.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Okay</i>, I thought. <i>Please stop saying “baked fish.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shannon brought the boys to visit on Tuesday afternoon. I
wanted to at least be on my feet for that, but nothing doing. Instead, a
nurse’s aid helped me into a wheelchair and rolled me out to a lounge area,
where I had the energy to visit for about a half hour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the ride home, Shannon told me later, Tony said that he
didn’t like how everyone could see my butt. I didn’t have the heart to tell him
that my catheterized wingwang had also been on pretty prominent display.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day they removed the main dressing and I got the
first good look at my scar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWoBrcEas9o0aTF5i-G59baRDQ0jmggfq-navczvKnRF7pbpiCBGxlP5BnXseL_De8D1H1WltMnlBLrIJomo_5rsMJzYMf7YDqd6qpddj3SPHSUMYTooGgcCdk957JRurYWeBd_6UBSB-/s1600/IMG_1404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWoBrcEas9o0aTF5i-G59baRDQ0jmggfq-navczvKnRF7pbpiCBGxlP5BnXseL_De8D1H1WltMnlBLrIJomo_5rsMJzYMf7YDqd6qpddj3SPHSUMYTooGgcCdk957JRurYWeBd_6UBSB-/s1600/IMG_1404.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The days unfolded in long stretches of nothing punctuated by
short bursts of intense activity—a nurse appearing to check my vitals and give
me a shot, a resident stopping by to look at my incision, my phone ringing.
This would go on through night, too. I’d be lucky enough to slip into some
pocket of deep sleep, only to wake up as a nurse velcroed a blood pressure cuff
on my arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And everyone asked the same question—<i>Have you passed any
gas?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slowly shed my tethers—first the EKG cables, then the
oxygen, and then the epidural. I wanted to start walking, and my main
inspiration was my roommate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never really found out what was wrong with him, but he
never had any visitors, and I overheard his nurses talk about moving him to a
care facility. I thought he was pretty old, but one night, there was an <i>Emergency</i>
marathon on the retro channel that he never seemed to shut off, and he said
that he watched that show as a kid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Holy shit</i>, I thought. I <i>watched that show as a kid</i>.
He couldn’t have been more than fifty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was in a bad way, but it was also clear to me that he was
playing a kind of game with his nurses. During a shift change, I heard his
nurse tell her replacement that he could move all of his limbs but refused to
get out of bed. And at least twice a day, when his nurse suggested that he get
out of bed and sit in a chair, he’d respond, “Nice try.” Once, he even warned
the nurse, “I’m going to spoil your day today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Near the end of the week I was free of everything but my IV
(the catheter came out Wednesday, and it was not a pleasant experience). I
worked hard to get out of bed and into a chair by myself. To do that, and to
then get myself out of the chair, I had to focus on using just my arms and
legs. This is harder than it sounds; we use our abs for nearly everything. But
whenever I’d use mine, a lightning bolt of pain would rip down the front of my
body. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I could get up and out, I would amble, turtle-like,
around the halls outside—first one lap at a time, then three, then as many as I
wanted. There was a magnetic board with little cars on it in the hallway where
patients could keep track of their laps (twenty-six equaled a mile,
apparently), so I commandeered a green pickup truck and started keeping count. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6v496vkELGID9FVxY6YlrpkFgaMyqGCzyt5X-_sRF46DPgYiABJmWwfEKd_7Hwuzy9FeoTFtqRQvkwi2LYDAgNm9C2kHrYlnrJ66YhsHp38__fz3TgqM28nfdn9vzXHb3splCRo8OeQL/s1600/IMG_1401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6v496vkELGID9FVxY6YlrpkFgaMyqGCzyt5X-_sRF46DPgYiABJmWwfEKd_7Hwuzy9FeoTFtqRQvkwi2LYDAgNm9C2kHrYlnrJ66YhsHp38__fz3TgqM28nfdn9vzXHb3splCRo8OeQL/s1600/IMG_1401.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every time I walked past that board and the sign next to it—“Bed is the
patient’s #1 enemy”—I thought of my roommate, and how the nurses were now
working on a new problem with him. He’d been constipated for four days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ya better bring the dynamite!” he told them at least five
times, inexplicably cheerful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d hear this and think, <i>Oh, hey, here’s an idea, Mr.
Beddy-Bye: get up off your ass and stop packing your gullet with baked fish.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t hang around that room. I walked lap after lap in
the hall, and then I’d venture outside the ward and into the hospital proper. I
kept track of the NCAA tournament games on my phone, and when a close one was
winding down, I’d slip quietly into my room to catch the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Discharge came a day early—Friday instead of Saturday. The
charge nurse removed my IV, went over instructions with me, and asked if I
wanted to be taken downstairs in a wheelchair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t. I worked hard to get walking again, and I wasn’t
about to be wheeled out. Before I left, I wished my roommate luck. I felt bad
for him. Life in a bed is no life at all. I had no idea what led him there or
what was keeping him there, and I didn’t want to know. I hope I never know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaving that hospital, I was happy to be heading home, and I
felt a lot better than I had on Tuesday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I didn’t know at the time was that things were going to
change over the weekend, and that in a few short days I’d be readmitted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-49932140940310640912014-03-08T10:12:00.001-08:002014-03-08T10:14:51.434-08:00False Peaks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5hGO84JD65tJN7dxq6GJg7kgeenT5P2VyhvgwP_KWW6cggMDTZ_28bF0HzJ0ppGlJZO8R7v-0OOX4dV7UYAVOjukRFLG-FpNeOi2gFk8BwS6OsZ0yD8wffKhsRXjMsn9zd3oLE7f_Adh/s1600/DSCF0848.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5hGO84JD65tJN7dxq6GJg7kgeenT5P2VyhvgwP_KWW6cggMDTZ_28bF0HzJ0ppGlJZO8R7v-0OOX4dV7UYAVOjukRFLG-FpNeOi2gFk8BwS6OsZ0yD8wffKhsRXjMsn9zd3oLE7f_Adh/s1600/DSCF0848.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I biked across the country, my single worst day came
pretty late in the trip. I was crossing from Tennessee into North Carolina on
Highway 165, which is known around those parts as the Cherohala Skyway. My new
friend Lawson—whom I’d met about a week earlier in Clarksville, Tennessee—told
me that it was beautiful country.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was. Or I guess it was. It was kind of hard to pay
attention because soon after I started out on it, I was climbing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously, at that point of my journey, I had done my share
of climbing with a loaded touring bike. I’d already made it through the Lagunas
in southern California, the Rockies in Colorado, and the Ozarks in southern
Missouri. But the Appalacians—the mountain range I was crossing here—presented
a different problem. Even though they’re not nearly as high as the Rockies, the
roads are cut into them much differently—steeper and more winding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also had no real idea where I was. My phone read NO
SERVICE almost as soon as I started up, and on my map, the road was little more
than a squiggle through a big green field. No markers, nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
And then there were the
motorcycles. Hoards of them passed me in both directions all day long, their
motors chopping the air in rising fits until they’d appear either in front or
behind me. I came to hate that noise, those thick tires, all that shiny chrome.
I came to hate their riders, too, with those ZZ Top beards, leather vests, and
thick, hairy forearms.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, I didn’t hate them all. The ones who threw me a peace
sign or a thumbs-up or a few quick taps on the horn as they passed, they were
all right. But the others had to go. And so did their engines, which did all
the work for them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the worst part about that day were all of the false
peaks. I climbed for six hours, twisting and turning up and up, telling myself
as I rounded a bend—panting, sweating, ready to fall over—that this <i>had</i>
to be the last one, this <i>had</i> to be the top, the road <i>had</i> to level
off here and start to drop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no. Each time I would curl around a wall of rock and
trees only to find that I was still going up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This day came back to me two weeks ago, when I met with a
surgeon to go over my latest scans. After my fourth and final round of chemo,
my doctor scheduled a PET/CT scan. The PET part of things checks for cancerous
activity, while the CT would provide a picture of the tumor sites to see how
they compared with the scan I had back in October, at the start of it all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The PET was clear. No real surprise there; my blood had been
free of tumor markers since the second round of chemo. The CT, however, was a
different story. Not much change from before. The specialists involved—my
oncologist, my urologist, and my surgeon—were in accord on two points. First,
that the tumors were more than likely benign, and second, that they had to come
out. Surgery. A big one, as it turns out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The procedure is called a retroperitoneal lymph node
dissection, or RPLND for short, and I’d been putting it far out of my mind
since my initial forays onto the internet back in October. It’s an invasive,
complicated, and, yes, risky procedure given the proximity of the tumors to a
few important innards, like my aorta.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my surgeon ran through the finer points—six hours on the
table, maybe close to a week in the hospital, a couple of other details that
didn’t make it through the blood pounding in my ears—I kept thinking about that
road that climbed forever. I felt like I was on it again. Just when I think
I’ve crested, just when I think I can start to cruise a little bit, I turn the
corner to find another false peak, that there’s still some climbing to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started to feel like too much for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I remembered how that day on the Cherohala Skyway
finished up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscZ9faKj7xXEAYM7zebFBbCDOx7c2aDbW61xKNfuxHSFPQko1Q13zK3a4kZH6yMcUuquYXzPwyLVWOQpM8mVldyc4QfA6w5A8gJQIBnK16Wb8ZVTB1W0nGIt0HcO1nMYuONyz0N1mwMi0/s1600/Nick's+Pictures+for+project+451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscZ9faKj7xXEAYM7zebFBbCDOx7c2aDbW61xKNfuxHSFPQko1Q13zK3a4kZH6yMcUuquYXzPwyLVWOQpM8mVldyc4QfA6w5A8gJQIBnK16Wb8ZVTB1W0nGIt0HcO1nMYuONyz0N1mwMi0/s1600/Nick's+Pictures+for+project+451.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things came to a head late in the day. I was on hour six of
the climb when I saw a little grassy area with a picnic table off to the left.
That was it for me. I’d had enough and pulled over to camp for the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leaned my bike against the picnic table and changed out of
my soaking jersey. Feeling a little
better, I unhitched the bag containing my tent and sleeping pad from the rear
rack and let it drop to the concrete pad with what I thought would be a
definitive <i>thump</i>, but it caught the edge of the table and rolled onto
the soft grass with hardly a sound. The only place to pitch my tent was on a
narrow gash of lawn that almost immediately became forest. A quick rummaging
through my handlebar bag revealed the contents of my larder: a few almonds,
dried blueberries, and a pouch of tuna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
It was overcast and cool as
the day headed into dusk. A blanket of trees defined the contours of the
rolling mountains, and pockets of mist were starting to form in some of the
indentations. These were the same woods that lay just beyond the picnic table;
I could walk into them and within ten feet the road, these tables, and my bike
would all disappear. In a few hours the forest would come alive, its
inhabitants looking for food.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remembered reading that bears could smell food up to
eleven miles away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The road had been empty for a while. Did the police patrol
it at all? Maybe a state trooper would rouse me from my tent in the middle of
the night. Better that, I figured, than a bear looking for my nuts and berries
and tuna. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone still read NO SERVICE. If something were to happen,
I had no way to call for help. And under a thick blanket of night, even with my
lights, escape might be more dangerous than staying put.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that point in my trip, I should have been more immune to
the indecision of the road than I was. I walked to the edge of the grass trying
to make something materialize in the forest, some clue that would tell me if
I’d be safe that night, but there was nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked up my bag, not sure what to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve got to get out of here. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ll be fine if I stay. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No, I’ll die if I stay. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was six-thirty. With rows of mountains behind me, the sun
was already invisible, and its remaining light was being swallowed by the long
shadows spilling from the forest. In another forty-five minutes or so, those
shadows would roll right over me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to go for it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what did I find? The summit of those Goddamn mountains
that I’d been climbing all Goddamn day was slyly waiting for me barely a half
mile up the road. As I crested the top, I took a deep breath before hurtling
down—beating the bears, beating the dark, beating my own bonked out,
noodle-like legs—to a little town called Robbinsville.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m hoping that this surgery on the 17th isn’t another false peak,
that there won’t be any complications, that I won’t have to go through another
round of “insurance” chemo. I’m ready for this road that I’ve been on since
last October to start to level off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if it doesn’t just yet, I know what I’m supposed to do.
Keep pedaling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-19139072582854910402014-02-06T07:35:00.000-08:002014-02-06T07:35:46.793-08:00Nuts and Bolts<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week I received a package in the mail—a medium-sized
box with the return address of the Illinois Farm Bureau. I knew right away that
it was from my buddy Kevin, who’s worked in their educational programs
department for a number of years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kevin and I were—and are—fraternity brothers; he was a year
ahead of me at the University of Illinois, but he joined our house the year
after I did. Our house was small, and it followed the general rule of any
group: 10% of the people did 90% of the work. Kevin immediately became—and
remained—one of the heavy lifters, despite several commitments elsewhere (he
was a manager for the Illini basketball team). This hasn’t changed; despite
working full-time, serving on the local school board, being heavily involved in
his church, and raising three kids, Kevin has also been active in our
fraternity on both the local and national level. For him, it’s not about
staying busy or being a workaholic. If I were forced to reduce Kevin to a
single sentence, I would have to say that of all the people I know, he’s the
one who most embodies the spirit of <i>community</i>. He knows that we’re all
in this together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No doubt his upbringing had a lot to do with his attitude.
He grew up in downstate Illinois (of course, “downstate” is a relative term; to
a suburban kid like me, anything south of I-80 fit this category). It was a
small town where people didn’t lock their doors at night and the local high
school’s graduating class numbered somewhere from ten to fifteen. I saw all of
this myself one year when I had Easter dinner at Kevin’s house. He drove me and
another of our brothers around his town (it didn’t take long), pausing at
various houses to tell us about the people who lived there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to digress here and tell the most memorable story from
that visit, which has nothing to do with Kevin. It’s about his father, who on
that weekend happened to be fixing a leaky underground pipe. When he mentioned
that he’d found the leak with a divining rod, I smirked in the way that only a
know-it-all Chicago suburban wiseass can. He invited me outside to give it a
try. The “divining rod” was actually two pieces that looked like sections of a
wire hanger bent into “L”s. Kevin’s dad had me hold each one loosely at the
bend, the short ends pointing down and the long ends pointing straight ahead.
He moved my hands about twelve inches apart and told me to start walking. As
INSERT PREFERRED DIETY HERE as my witness, when I came near the area where he’d
been digging, the two pieces of metal moved in my hands. Actually moved. The
long ends pulled towards each other and crossed, and I jumped, my face
registering wide-eyed shock. Kevin’s dad just smiled and said, “Bet they don’t
teach that in Chicago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, they didn’t. My knowledge of small-town America came
mainly from reruns of <i>The Andy Griffith Show</i>. Until, that is, I went to
college, joined a fraternity, and lived with a lot of guys who’d had very
different backgrounds than I did. I remember another weekend at another
brother’s home way out in western Illinois, when I got to put on boots, slog
through snow-covered mud, and help feed some cows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But back to that package.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I opened the box, and hidden inside a sea of curled
styrofoam pieces was a brown envelope, heavy and bulging at one end. Inside the
envelope was a five page letter and a baggie full of steel nuts, all different
sizes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The letter explained the bag. Back in October, when I first
announced that I had cancer again after ten years, Kevin—having seen my
Facebook post and having read my blog—went to his men’s group at his church,
and he asked them to pray for me. The group thought about something else they
could do. One option was a “prayer blanket,” where the women in the quilting
group make a blanket, pray while they make it, and then send it to the person
being prayed for. But a few weeks later, after one of the men read my post
<a href="http://noeasywriter.blogspot.com/2013/10/please-lie-still-while-i-crush-your.html" target="_blank">“Please Lie Still While I Crush Your Balls,”</a> they decided to do something else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They would pray over nuts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kevin gave a nut to each of the twelve men closest to him.
All of them carried a nut around in their pockets for a couple of months and
prayed for me while it jangled around with keys and loose change. One of the
men looped his through a leather cord and wore it around his neck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my chemotherapy ended, Kevin gathered the nuts back up
and sent them to me. In the letter, he told me a little bit about each of the
men (including which fraternity brother each one reminded him of).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put them on a cable ring, and I’ve been carrying them with
me every day in my right pocket. It’s a nice balance to my keys, which I always
carry on my left side. It’s also a suitable replacement for what I’m missing on
my right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rpHSyCXOAzCnQq8m3AUQ0Il3pu11x1kV92cmzFABB2UV8BQO9DpxHvTRbMnh26ZywjLN3Rqj11tj8Tg5KUIY6pxps7U94bgYhF_IDL-WPmI4UdKrpLzedyAmsb7sSiog0iSxQLRrYwn0/s1600/Nuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rpHSyCXOAzCnQq8m3AUQ0Il3pu11x1kV92cmzFABB2UV8BQO9DpxHvTRbMnh26ZywjLN3Rqj11tj8Tg5KUIY6pxps7U94bgYhF_IDL-WPmI4UdKrpLzedyAmsb7sSiog0iSxQLRrYwn0/s1600/Nuts.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find myself reaching into my pocket several times over the
course of a given day. I like to hold the ring, slip my fingers through it,
feel the weight of the nuts. I’m not a big believer in the power of prayer, but
I’m a huge believer in the power of friendship and good acts—especially those
done by strangers for strangers. It makes this big, scary world a lot smaller and
reminds us that we’re part of something. To me, that’s what’s holy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’d like to thank these twelve men, all of whom I hope to
meet someday: Rick Lohnes, Tom Payne, Scott Riddle, Bob Sammer, Steve Ward,
Harry Jiles, Shawn Benz, Kyle Merkle, Steve Dean, Gary Tipsord, Jeff Baughman,
and Parker Daugherty (Kevin’s twelve-year-old son). And I’d like to thank the
thirteenth man, my dear friend and brother Kevin. I hope that someday I can do
something for someone that means as much to that person as this gift has meant
to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-54559407390778887932014-01-23T09:02:00.000-08:002014-01-24T10:33:31.626-08:00A Big John World<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
My fourth and last round of
chemotherapy ended on Friday (the 17<sup>th</sup>), and the numbers are
excellent: my tumor markers are at zero and have been for several weeks. As far
as cancer goes, I’m lucky to have been stricken with one that has a pretty
effective treatment. As a good friend messaged me, “Better living through
chemistry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, almost.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
Now I’m caught between two
states—No Longer Sick and Not Yet Normal. Ten years ago when I went through
this, I had a total of three rounds. This time I had four rounds, and let me
tell you, there’s a universe of difference between Round Three and Round Four.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
For one thing, I never felt a
full bounce-back after Round Three before I had to go back in again. The side
effects were fewer, but the ones—or, rather, the <i>one</i>—that was there was
pretty intense. Nausea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
From nearly the get-go of Round
Four, I was getting sick. As the week progressed, it intensified to the point
where, for the three days following my last treatment, I couldn’t keep anything
down. No solids, no liquids. I was down to bile, and that was running out fast.
Every thirty minutes or so would find me heaving over a toilet and looking like
I needed an exorcist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
All of which is to say that Round
Four put me on the business end of a serious ass-kicking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s not that I wasn’t getting
anti-nausea meds; the problem was that I couldn’t keep them down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I finally realized that I wasn’t
going to pull out of this on my own; my body was becoming dehydrated, and I
couldn’t do anything about it. Shannon drove me to the chemo center, where the
nurses took one look at me standing there all pale and woozy, told me to sit
down, and began pumping fluid into me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent3">
They threw in some anti-nauseants while they were
at it, and they changed up my prescription a bit. That was Tuesday, and I’m
happy to report that I’ve most definitely turned a corner. The idea that I was
somehow going to make it in to teach this week is laughable to me now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
In the wake of this somewhat
rough landing, I decided to go to a support group. I went to one ten years ago
and found it very peaceful and affirming. A few weeks ago, I picked up a flier
for one being run out of my oncologist’s office on Wednesday nights, but I’d
forgotten about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m glad I went. There’s a poem
by Tom Wayman that I like to teach in creative writing called “Did I Miss
Anything,” and it’s a teacher’s snarky response to that inevitable question
that an absent student will unthinkingly ask upon his or her return. The final
lines go like this: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">“[Did I miss anything?]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">Everything. Contained in this classroom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">is a microcosm of human experience<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">assembled for you to query and examine and ponder<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">but it was one place<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Century;">And you weren’t here”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
I
remembered this ending during the support group meeting. I could have blown the
meeting off, telling myself, <i>Well, I’m through this now, time to get on with
my life, and by the way, what’s on TV? </i>But then I would have missed out on
meeting Sam (again, no real names here), a guy who’s survived esophageal
cancer, and Gladys (a lymphoma survivor and widow who was diagnosed just weeks
before her husband died of stomach cancer) and Fred, an octogenarian who’s
still waiting for a clear diagnosis of his condition.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
And
I would have missed out on the meeting the incredible Valdez family, whose
patriarch, Rudy, is now facing colon cancer. He’s had his surgery, and now he’s
steeling himself for a stretch of radiation and chemotherapy. He didn’t come to
the meeting alone; instead, Rudy was flanked by no fewer than a dozen family
members—sisters, brothers, nephews, sons, and even his ex-wife—all of them
there to support him and ask questions of what to expect. It was an emotional
hour and a half, but all of the family members looked visibly relieved—or at least
less shell-shocked—than at the meeting’s start.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t envy the journey they’re
about to embark on together—for obvious reasons—but I also don’t envy the
obvious love and support that Rudy will be surrounded by on this journey. I
don’t envy any of that because a person can’t envy what he has.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I can’t even begin to catalog the
acts of love, kindness, and support that I’ve been the grateful recipient of
these last several weeks. So rather than try, I’m instead going to tell a story
that, for me, can better capture what I’m trying to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
The story comes from my
cross-country bike trip back in 2010—a part of my past that seems like a long,
long time ago. One leg of the trip took me through Metropolis, Illinois, a
small town on the Ohio River. On
its outskirts, I passed through a tree-lined section of Highway 45 with a huge
factory to the right and a lot of activity going on in front—people, cars,
canopy tents, lawn chairs, a big American flag or two, and a large gray shape
on the left that looked like one of those gorillas that car dealers use to
advertise “King Kong-sized Savings!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
But what I thought was some kind of party or
picnic turned out to be something else. As I rolled closer, I saw people
holding signs that read “LOCKED OUT,” “HONEYWELL,” “CORPORATE GREED,” and “USW
Local 7-699.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I immediately slowed down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
The
members of United Steel Workers Local 7-699 were happy to have someone to talk
to. They were all employed at the Honeywell plant—the gigantic,
chain-link-enclosed compound behind them—which happened to be the only
uranium-conversion facility in the U.S. I didn’t understand the physical or
chemical principles involved, but I understood enough to know that it was
hazardous work and that the people who do it should have some health
protections, which is the very issue that stalled labor talks between the
workers and Honeywell and led to the lock out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
The
shape that I thought was a gorilla was actually a giant inflatable rat. It had
a sign around its neck that read “SHAW,” a company that was providing scab
workers to Honeywell. While business more or less continued at the plant, these
workers—and their spouses, sons, and daughters, who were also out there holding
signs—had to make do on savings and whatever support the USW or local residents
could provide. Mainly food, one of the workers told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
Lockouts
and strikes are awful things—weapons of last resort that test each side’s will
and resolve, and the longer they go the more reluctant the warring sides are to
blink. As I looked at this group of people, I knew that they represented just a
fraction of the total workers; if a union is going to pull off what might turn
into a long-term protest, you need to work in shifts. I could see in their
plain t-shirts and torn jeans and scuffed boots that they were going to be
harder hit than the Honeywell executives. No one on the other side would go
without meals or water or electricity during this struggle, but I could see a
future of letters from banks and first- and second-notifications from utility
companies in the mailboxes of these workers. I could see boxes packed with
loaves of white bread, macaroni and cheese, and cans of soup being dropped off
door-to-door or handed out at some parking lot. I could also see that they were
in it together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
One
of the kids asked about my bike, and when I said that I rode from California, I
was bombarded with questions while a couple of people took pictures of me with
their phones.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
“Where
to from here?” one man asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
“Paducah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
One
woman in the back looked at me with wide eyes. “You’re not taking 45 over the
river are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
I
was pretty sure I was, and I told her so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
A
couple of them exchanged looks while she shook her head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
“You
need to flag down a truck and have them drive you across,” she told me. “It’s
dangerous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
“Someone
got hurt real bad out there just last month,” another guys added.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
I
told them that I’ve been through some pretty rough terrain already, and even
though a few nodded and laughed and one guy even said, “I’ll bet you have,” the
woman in the back looked unconvinced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
“You
get a truck to stop for you, hon,” she said again before I pedaled away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
When I finally made it to the bridge, I knew
why she was so worried. It looked long, narrow, and had no discernible lines
painted on it. There was also a sign warning motorcyclists to keep off. There
weren’t any trucks to flag down for a ride; by the time I hit the bridge it was
late on a Sunday afternoon, and the few people who needed to cross the Ohio
River were probably doing so by way of nearby Interstate 24. Even though it was drizzling and had been
ever since I left the Honeywell workers about an hour and a half earlier, I
took a minute to appreciate what I was about to cross. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
The structure known informally as the
“Brookport Bridge” and more formally as the “Irwin Cobb Bridge” stretched out
high above the Ohio River for over a mile before it hit Kentucky soil.
Aesthetically, its ten-truss, no-frills, blue steel construction looked strong
and solid, just like the people I met from this area. I took a deep breath,
started across, and immediately understood the posted warning. If the
sign-makers thought for a second that someone would be crazy enough to cross
this bridge on a bicycle, they would have extended the warning to them as well.
But what biker in his right mind would attempt to ride over a bridge whose
floor is made of steel grates large enough to reach an arm through and touch
the girders beneath? The sound my tires made on the surface was just awful, and
at any moment I expected to get thrown from my bike as my tires shredded and my
front wheel locked between the fierce metal squares.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
As
much as I wanted to just cross and be done with it, and even though I could
feel the drizzle gathering up into a bona fide rain, I stopped halfway across.
It was soupy and humid out, and there was little activity on the water except
for a couple of long barges that crept across the brown surface. The bridge was
empty, so I dismounted my bike and leaned against the side. I could just make
out the edge of Metropolis, jutting into my line of sight downriver.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
After
I left the workers and biked into town, I was thinking more about what they
were going through than the reason that brought me to Metropolis in the first
place—Superman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
The
town made sure that I wouldn’t forget for long. About a half mile past the
Honeywell plant, I was greeted by a big fence that read “Welcome to Metropolis”
below a picture of the Man of Steel in flight. As I rode further, several signs
directed me to the Super Museum, and I wheeled my bike inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
The
museum was at the back of the building; to get to it, I had to first pass
through the gift shop. I promised myself that I’d sift through all of the
shirts, books, stickers, magnets, cups, postcards, pencils, and anything else
they could slap a giant “S” on after I’d checked out the museum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
I
paid my five bucks and went in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
It
was a funhouse of relics and kitsch. Costumes from the movies, action figures,
dolls, board games, puzzles, card sets, buttons, and even lamps. There were
plastic 7-11 cups from the 1970s adorned with superheroes. My brother and I
used to beg my mom for Slurpees during hot Chicago summers when we were kids,
and we fought bitterly over the best cups. I would always lose. While he’d get Mr. Mxyzptlk, Braniac, and Clark Kent
tearing off his <i>Daily Planet</i> garb to reveal the Superman costume
beneath, I’d be stuck with Ma and Pa Kent and Jimmy Olsen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
There
was also a framed photo from the first Christopher Reeve movie, where he saves
a train that’s heading for a gap in a bridge. One of the rails is bent down and
the other is gone completely. In the photo, the Man of Steel holds one of the
rails with his arm and lets his back serve as the other so that the train will
pass safely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
Outside
the museum was the town square, and smack in the middle of that was a big
statue of Supes. I had a stranger take some pictures of me standing beneath
him, striking a similar pose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
And
what is that pose?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
He
stands alone, hands on hips, barely the hint of a smile on his face. A generous
onlooker might describe him as searching the distance for some wrong to right,
but what I saw was someone posing impatiently for a photograph. His expression
isn’t the least bit friendly; it’s more like resignation. Or disdain. Something
along the lines of, <i>Here I stand above and there you are below</i>. He might
have even been counting the minutes until he could soar back to his Fortress of
Solitude to sit quietly and stare at Kandor, the shrunken capital city of
Krypton that now resides in a bottle, the last remnant of the home he’s lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
I
wondered what the United Steel Workers of Honeywell—those very real men and
women of steel—think of this statue or of the image of Superman’s body,
stretched in mythic flight on the “Welcome to Metropolis” sign. Superman isn’t
going to make the Honeywell executives do the right thing. He’s not big enough
to combat greed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
Hell,
he’s not even the biggest guy in Metropolis; that honor goes to Big John, who
stands at least ten feet taller at the other end of town, towering over the
parking lot of Big John Foods. John lacks Superman’s classic good looks; yes,
the square jaw is there, but his eyebrows are way too thick and his nose bulges
across its bridge as if it’s been broken a few times. When I saw him as I left
town, I took one look at his mug and those thick arms filled with grocery bags,
and I thought he was probably a punchy ex-boxer working the only job he could
get—bag boy at the local food store.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
But
John’s a member of the community; he’s integrated into the ordinary and necessary
ritual of shopping for food. Superman, on the other hand, is exotic, a
destination for tourists and curiosity seekers like me. While Superman parks
his hands all mythic-like on his hips, John’s using his to deliver food
somewhere—to his family, to a customer, to a neighbor in need. Really, if
you’re a locked-out worker who’s wondering where the next meal is coming, who
would you rather see at your door—Superman with his x-ray vision or Big John
with ground beef, bread, apples, and milk?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
The
rain started to pick up, but I didn’t move. Because of the bridge, I could head
into Kentucky whenever I was ready. But before there were bridges, crossing
rivers was a dicey operation. Native Americans and then pioneer explorers would
have had to cross the Ohio by canoe. As I looked at the current below, I knew
that I wouldn’t want to have been them. Later there were ferryboats, and before
the steam engine, those ferries were towed by rowboats. It was a group effort,
and even with several hands helping out, people died. Building this bridge was
a group effort, too, from the people who designed it to the miners who dug the
ore to the millworkers who forged the parts to the workers who riveted and
welded it into existence. Anonymous faces working together so that I could
cross this river in a few minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
When
I was younger, I saw myself as indestructible; when I was building a family and
profession, I saw myself powering through any and all challenges; when I had
cancer the first time, I felt vulnerable and lost; and when I left on my bike
trip, I felt the need to feel strong, to be found.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
We
like to romanticize our journeys as solo adventures—I know that I sure did—but
the fact is, they’re not. Not even close. Biking across the country reminded me of the connections that give my life texture:
the memories that filled my head as I pedaled, the people I met along the way,
the ache I felt when I called home, the blog updates that I sent out like a
beacon to others, the rush I felt whenever someone left a comment on what I’ve
written. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: -.5in;">
Cancer—both
times—has been more of the same. The phone calls and cards. The visits during
chemo, friends sitting with me quietly, holding my hand, making me laugh. The
surprise dinners. The never-ending offers to do something—anything—to lighten
my burden. When I was still planning to teach this week, my friend called and
told me that she was ready to take my classes for me. It wasn’t really a
request; there was something in her voice that said, <i>I’m doing this for you</i>,
and it broke me. Yes, she was going to do this for me and I would let her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back
on that bridge, I hopped on my bike and continued across the river. I was wet,
my legs ached, and as soon as I heard that awful sound of bike tire on steel
grate, I wondered if I was going to make it to the other side. <i>Wouldn’t it
be great to be able to fly?</i> I thought. <i>After all, what’s a river to
Superman?</i> If he didn’t feel like flying, he could still leap over the wide
expanse without breaking a sweat. Or maybe alter the river’s course with otherworldly
strength. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But nobody is more powerful than a locomotive
or faster than a speeding bullet. We owe a huge, un-repayable debt to all of
those anonymous others who build our bridges and drive our ferries and develop
the drugs and treatments that can extend a life. We also need those others who
aren’t so anonymous: the people in our lives who remind us where we’ve been,
help us imagine the future, and stay with us for a little while along the way.
We might think we’re Superman soaring across the sky in magnificent solitude,
but it’s a Big John world out here, and none of us is going to make it very far
on our own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-28267050490787411562014-01-04T12:09:00.000-08:002014-01-04T12:09:22.413-08:00Nice Shootin', Tex! or, Crossing Off #18 on the Bucket ListWhen I was a kid growing up in the 70s, a bunch of us in the neighborhood used to play a game we called "Guns." Not very imaginative, but neither was the game, really. We sorted ourselves into teams, and everybody picked someone to "be" from TV. Tony Cruz, who lived two doors down from me, was Baretta; Scott Reed, my next door neighbor, was Hutch; his sister Debbie, the only girl who played, was Pepper Anderson (from <i>Police Woman</i>); and Steve Kafka, who lived on the other side of the townhouse unit from me, was Hondo Harrelson (from <i>SWAT</i>). He took this role only grudgingly; because Steve had a pair of nunchucks, he wanted to be Bruce Lee, but that kind of went against the whole spirit of the game. Me, I was always Starsky.<br />
<br />
The objective of the game was to disperse, hunt each other around outside, and shoot members of the opposite team with the capguns we had. I'd saved my money and bought a beaut--a black-and-silver .38 snubnose with a real cylinder that spun around. While some of my fellow players used big rolls of red paper caps, my gun had special ammo--a plastic ring of caps that fit onto the back of the cylinder and rotated around so that the real-action hammer could hit and pop each cap.<br />
<br />
We played lots of games, my neighbors and I, but Guns is the one that I remember best because I really liked those shows we imitated, and I really liked running around and shooting my gun.<br />
<br />
And somehow, I made it to age forty-six without ever firing a real one.<br />
<br />
Until a couple of weeks ago.<br />
<br />
Once word spread of my cancer, offers of "Let me know what I can do" came pouring in. When it was made by one of my former students--a vet who'd served in the Air Force and had posted a few of her firing-range escapades on Facebook--I told her that I had an interesting request for her. Take me shooting.<br />
<br />
Now anyone who knows me well knows (or can guess) that I'm in favor of much stronger gun control laws, and that I consider the NRA's leadership and lobbyists to be among the biggest douchebags on our political landscape. But, I've always wanted to fire a gun, if for no other reason than to see what the excitement was all about.<br />
<br />
My former student--let's call her Annie (as in Annie Oakley)--and her Glock 27 met me at an Oceanside firing range. It was crowded with both people and guns--long glass cases filled with revolvers and automatics, and wall racks holding up various rifles, shotguns, and assault weapons. I was asked to sign a sheet stating that I was not a felon, did not abuse alcohol or drugs, and was mentally stable. There were four people on staff--three men and one woman--and they were all professional, courteous, and extremely safety-conscious. When Annie was showing me how the magazine fit into her Glock, one of the staff members shouted at us to make sure that we weren't loading a weapon in the lobby (we weren't).<br />
<br />
When our turn came, we were given a couple of targets and two heavy-duty pairs of headphones for noise protection. The rules required that we put them on before we entered the firing range. I should point out that even in the lobby, the pops of the guns from beyond the thick glass wall were <i>loud</i>. To get to the range, we even had to go through a "sound lock," where we opened and closed one big, padded door before we could open another one.<br />
<br />
Inside the range proper, two things were immediately noticeable--the smell of gunpowder and the <i>pops </i>that were now <i>BANGS</i>. Annie and I had to shout at each other from two feet away, but those gun blasts had no trouble getting through our ear protectors.<br />
<br />
We went to the far lane, where Annie hung up a target and then showed me how to load, hold, and aim the Glock. She fired a few shots to demonstrate before handing the weapon to me.<br />
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I don't want to make too much of holding the gun, but at the same time, I do. Without trying to be overly metaphorical, I would describe it as heavy. The gun itself looked like a toy; the Glock 27 isn't very big and has a short grip, so its weight was surprising to me. But more than that, holding the gun didn't provide that rush I'd felt as a kid. In truth, it was a little scary. This was an awful amount of power to hold--the power to do some serious damage to another human being. Maybe a lot of people buy these things with the sole intention of shooting targets, but I don't think so. At some point when a person buys a gun, he or she has to imagine pointing it at another human being. The idea certainly passed through my mind as I held it in my hand, and it made me feel a little sick. Part of this feeling, I'm sure, came from the chemicals lingering in my system. But part of it also came from the close proximity I've felt to death since mid-October in my thoughts, sure, but also in being around lots of other people in much more dire stages of cancer and chemo than me. I wondered if wanting to fire a gun was an effort on my part to exercise some control over death. If so, it was a failed effort; holding that Glock felt like shaking hands with someone I didn't want to meet, not ever.<br />
<br />
All of these feelings were intensified when I fired it. Even though I'd watched Annie fire a couple of rounds, the force of that kick surprised me. And the noise, now exploding from about two feet in front of my face, was even louder.<br />
<br />
I emptied the gun at the target about twenty-five yards away, and there was another full magazine waiting for me. Annie had told me to aim "center mass," and that's what I did--or tried to do.<br />
<br />
"It's a stress reliever, right?" she asked as she passed another full magazine my way.<br />
<br />
"Not really," I said, but I'm not sure my reply made it through the headphones.<br />
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I kept waiting to get into some kind of rhythm or comfort, waiting for the excitement that I'd felt as a kid running around on those summer days with my fake .38 to kick in, but every time I pulled that trigger, the noise and jerk were sobering, and I couldn't help thinking that all of those cop shows and action movies that transform the noise, smell, and feel of shooting into entertainment are bullshit.<br />
<br />
I walked out of the range glad that I'd finally done this thing but convinced that I wouldn't return.<br />
<br />
But here's the weird thing: the further I get from the experience, the more that I think it might not be too bad to try it again.<br />
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-61549438678012205052013-12-21T10:35:00.004-08:002013-12-21T10:35:56.248-08:00Voices from the RoadI'm working on a longer, more text-heavy post (teaser: it might have the words "bucket list" in the title), but in the meantime, I wanted to share some of the comics from my recently-completed book, <i>That Hidden Road</i>. The images below represent a sampling, and they are sprinkled throughout the manuscript. I decided to draw and write these comics because, when I bicycled across the country, I had a lot of encounters with people that stuck with me, but they didn't seem substantive enough to warrant space in the narrative proper. These comics seemed like a good solution, especially because I've always thought that the medium excels at amplifying quiet moments.<br />
<br />
Here they are:<br />
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To any publishers and/or agents out there, the book is finished and clocks in at 100,000 words. And if the fact that I have cancer makes you interested out of pity, I'm totally okay with that...</div>
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-5937503459029390832013-12-04T13:52:00.000-08:002013-12-04T13:53:03.165-08:00Numbers Don't LieGood news to report: I got the results of my blood tests back after the first week of chemo, and my two tumor markers--alpha Fetoprotein (AFP) and human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG)--are dropping. So, the evidence is strong that the chemo is doing more than just turning me into a naked mole rat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDyIR6XiwBfZrjaTkwgi8PzoBWJQdBs-VjS2mJv6t9Z7QCqIBYSgzefGK3b2o4a14g6jF0Mj0Up1UoDNA5o-pUTRQg85IUJboLJaPBzFQs6y5tUpb2lGv04HdJbfJEXdZD2mrcigfTU3_/s1600/Heisenberg+Rat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDyIR6XiwBfZrjaTkwgi8PzoBWJQdBs-VjS2mJv6t9Z7QCqIBYSgzefGK3b2o4a14g6jF0Mj0Up1UoDNA5o-pUTRQg85IUJboLJaPBzFQs6y5tUpb2lGv04HdJbfJEXdZD2mrcigfTU3_/s320/Heisenberg+Rat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Also dropping, unfortunately, are my white blood cells, which apparently are important in fighting off germs and bacteria. That means some changes for me: I'm carrying a little bottle of Purell and squirting it on anything and anyone I come in contact with, I'm not driving on any roads where there's a Taco Bell, and I'm no longer honoring the "Five Second Rule" (although truthfully, I've always stretched it to more of a "Five Minute Rule," especially if the fallen object was candy. Or bacon.)<br />
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In other news, with some help from my buddy John, I've got all of the comics done that are going to go in my second book, <i>That Hidden Road</i>. There are about 35 pages all together that will be intercut with the larger narrative, and I may post some of these pages here if there's any interest. That, by the way, is my non-subtle invitation to any readers out there to express some interest.<br />
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<br />Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2079802734668178506.post-53774358985159025502013-11-28T11:23:00.004-08:002013-11-28T11:24:20.582-08:00Hair Today...<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the time has come. For the last few days, I’ve stepped
out of the shower to find my neck matted with hair. Yesterday, all that hair loss became--at least to me--noticeable; I looked like I’d had a haircut. This morning, I could gently pinch
the hair on my head and come away with this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh9JZzGa6qz8iwYf4_B_59og0KniDZD1NI_l-l56heYMdR-4N_C8H6Nx1p-iEnJqk9vHSBGIYxgXAytpHF8KKDOFOmNgnR6-Y5xeZDXEb124G0EPeTqvGr1PoTq5KqsEgtoHzgzjfeHYc/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh9JZzGa6qz8iwYf4_B_59og0KniDZD1NI_l-l56heYMdR-4N_C8H6Nx1p-iEnJqk9vHSBGIYxgXAytpHF8KKDOFOmNgnR6-Y5xeZDXEb124G0EPeTqvGr1PoTq5KqsEgtoHzgzjfeHYc/s320/001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, here’s where I started:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FgnqOHymVStpumYjXQrRYoj4MUiN6sClDv8e16PW9U2bM-V7B37FPZXL2FdimNKYG_7xp0IIBqcJftlD5qhjZBeZrayzXQf7Ieedn-ChyphenhyphenfvXruh11UcundHWLA8Nkuaa_gr4a6MvI-bn/s1600/002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FgnqOHymVStpumYjXQrRYoj4MUiN6sClDv8e16PW9U2bM-V7B37FPZXL2FdimNKYG_7xp0IIBqcJftlD5qhjZBeZrayzXQf7Ieedn-ChyphenhyphenfvXruh11UcundHWLA8Nkuaa_gr4a6MvI-bn/s320/002.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>
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I don’t know how many people have shaved their heads before,
but it has to be done in stages. Stage one is with the electric clippers,
starting at the third-lowest setting and working down to the lowest. And
perhaps it goes without saying that this stage demands a Mohawk:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALH95l8kE4NmxkSh03_oCxD4D7tWZBpsjxdx1Hw8kI45ZAYs3JDo4SJDd71Izi7NXuOMB4qGiSomeOPm35q1d4KXzlxUxKIfAU1w-2rmkZPA3zl6x8bcsCjMS-jHW-TjAi_bzyTH4xmpo/s1600/004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALH95l8kE4NmxkSh03_oCxD4D7tWZBpsjxdx1Hw8kI45ZAYs3JDo4SJDd71Izi7NXuOMB4qGiSomeOPm35q1d4KXzlxUxKIfAU1w-2rmkZPA3zl6x8bcsCjMS-jHW-TjAi_bzyTH4xmpo/s320/004.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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I post this picture in part as a shout-out to one of my students this semetser (you know
who you are, and thanks again for the book!)</div>
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Next, I lose the Mohawk:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebuwjT_zEz9HoFced_lOjMoPhwPm24qGPIcXBZHA1kpWt3AdzWJK-yTOAKwaFqXt2tWK86hvEKria9uhEH5OlZfpUy8KE6jHeBMD90ZDw1gZJYLgXvdKe2mohWTqM_4NqdSC0g1S39TIb/s1600/008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebuwjT_zEz9HoFced_lOjMoPhwPm24qGPIcXBZHA1kpWt3AdzWJK-yTOAKwaFqXt2tWK86hvEKria9uhEH5OlZfpUy8KE6jHeBMD90ZDw1gZJYLgXvdKe2mohWTqM_4NqdSC0g1S39TIb/s320/008.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
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Up to this point, I’ve been using only my electric clippers. Now
it’s time to get serious, so out comes the shaving cream:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZoiYFbknzvlURDYEEnqCCz4_XQPPZ5OHa9Ka3ojAYloX2vnYo2ui9vUU4e06pHJ1fABAvcksGIdJzmhDoJ15-96-TEyqw0CWbGeIccCbODpJzWju3C1Yc6TauowRkl-zpVkijdNCvduJ/s1600/009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZoiYFbknzvlURDYEEnqCCz4_XQPPZ5OHa9Ka3ojAYloX2vnYo2ui9vUU4e06pHJ1fABAvcksGIdJzmhDoJ15-96-TEyqw0CWbGeIccCbODpJzWju3C1Yc6TauowRkl-zpVkijdNCvduJ/s320/009.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
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The result? A head as smooth as a baby’s bottom:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc35Ry_st-IXBXDpCDyTRVkJ2UO4AxVp5EW6E2aHmCXWlncZR78nltQpT95tV_Cn3ktRi1n0Cy6Yxug5M6Se-GMtAm7bk7W61m7E6Oyw2CGhOJDUvo28dL05Mo95EZusSwmmsCorhhPpYO/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc35Ry_st-IXBXDpCDyTRVkJ2UO4AxVp5EW6E2aHmCXWlncZR78nltQpT95tV_Cn3ktRi1n0Cy6Yxug5M6Se-GMtAm7bk7W61m7E6Oyw2CGhOJDUvo28dL05Mo95EZusSwmmsCorhhPpYO/s320/010.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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So is this how I’ll venture out into the world? Probably not; I think I’ll
make my initial appearances with a little more flair:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjf4YkK9KgU9aAw2qopiWdTbF5c0y3S8sPkrL57rex74F2Koi5czCGUKYBJpc0GHZG9HG4AWRquIycj2Ubd-bYZwGz_hdCid4SjTVM2R0rsSnBkHNSuSVdWO5eyxm_H4agO9Ms-oc2AYb6/s1600/011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjf4YkK9KgU9aAw2qopiWdTbF5c0y3S8sPkrL57rex74F2Koi5czCGUKYBJpc0GHZG9HG4AWRquIycj2Ubd-bYZwGz_hdCid4SjTVM2R0rsSnBkHNSuSVdWO5eyxm_H4agO9Ms-oc2AYb6/s320/011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For now, I'm going to leave my facial hair. It's falling out, too, but I'm content to let it come out on its own. As for the new look, I don't think that “Heisenberg” will work as an alter ego—I don’t
know enough about science. Maybe…<i>Hemingway</i>?</div>
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I’m open to suggestions.</div>
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Rocco Versacihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880844010680941441noreply@blogger.com2