In no particular order:Writing, Traveling, Crete, Greece, Modern Greek, German, Spanish, Japanese, Japan, Europe, India, Thailand, Running, Eventually Going to Law School or jumping into a Master's program & the Arizona Sting 2005 Indoor Lacrosse Western Division Champs!
I'd like to meet:
Mary Louise Parker, but she stopped returning my calls. "Stopped" meaning she never took them in the first place.
Mary, that cute little restraining order was a lovely gesture and only makes me love you more! Why haven't you called?
Also want to meet other travelers of all sytles and influences, writers, travel bloggers and editors.
Music:
Ska, Jazz, Classical and Rock--some fav bands include Bare Naked Ladies, Coldplay, Led Zeppelin, Modest Mouse & the Stones....
Movies:
Dinner Rush, Dr. Strangelove, High Fidelity and Der Untergang to name a few...
Television:
The Colbert Report, The Daily Show, Family Guy, American Dad, West Wing, Weeds (Ah, Mary....)
Books:
For the longest time I was saying "Look for my book, Single Servings to be published in late 2007, early 2008." Now I'm not so sure. Here's an excerpt anyway:
FROM SINGLE SERVINGS: It was the summer of 2000 and I was on my way from my end of an assignment in Spain to my new assignment in Germany. I was traveling with everything—my cat, my suitcases, my laptop, everything. Everything, that is, except my keys. I lost those somewhere between Marseille and Nice. My car was old enough and my steering column had been used enough where it didn’t need a key anymore and all I had to do, in order to get the car to Germany successfully, was not lock the door and not let the car get stolen. The latter part of that was less likely than the former. This car had been vandalized by gypsies; it looked as if the whole Andalucian network of them took turns raping it. My trunk lock was missing, there was black paint on the trunk (blue car), the interior roofing was drooping and the car had no heat. I felt as if I should sue Adam Sandler for writing the song “Piece of Shit Car†without sharing any royalties with me. Anyway, when it came time for Rachel (cat) to have her litter changed and more cat food bought, I pulled into a small Mediterranean village about seventy kilometers past Monaco. Oh how nervous I was, leaving my cat and my material life in plain view of anyone who looks in this car. I closed the door, ran inside the grocery store and within ten minutes was back out of the door I came in, with kitty litter under one arm and a plastic bag of canned cat food—her favorite canned food—in the other hand. Much to my surprise, the door I had closed ten minutes ago was wide open. I ran to the car, ready to take inventory of what must be missing. Nothing was missing. I took inventory. Cat, there. Laptop, there. Suitcase, even the money on the dashboard, there. Everything was there. I couldn’t understand it, but then, a little old lady with white and grey curly hair and large glasses, wearing a stained smock approached me, speaking an Italian easy enough to understand, just like Spanish.
I remember clearly the lady asking me, “Is this your car?†I told her yes, and her seeing that I had the identification sticker from Spain and license plates from Cádiz on the car, she asked me in such a voice, “Are people from Spain always such idiots! What is wrong with your head, leaving your animal in the car, so! Il gatti morire!†Then her daughter came up behind her for an encore performance and to let me know that her mother is not alone in her thoughts about the thick-headed Spaniard who has no respect for an animal such as this one, and that she should take this cat from me right now. It was not just these two ladies, but three others, and then two others who followed them. Another came from across the street to give me this onslaught of Italian disproval. A circle formed and they didn’t wait to take turns on me about what they thought, but by now there was no understanding them, it was just a bunch of moving lips, hand expressions, foot stomping and noise in a language that seemed very Latin, indeed. The last words I remember came from the old lady, saying, “Da le agua! †Wow, I thought, getting into the car and watching my cat happy in her little victory at my expense, they really just gave it to me, didn’t they.
As I am about to turn the steering column, a policeman came walking up and summoned me towards him. He spoke in Italian, but I couldn’t understand him at all. I do not think I was capable of understanding any language at this point, and I asked him if he can speak English.
“Oh, English,†he said. “Yes, okay. We have a little problem. You a-leave this a-animal in the car and this is a problem.â€
“Sir, I’m sorry,†I said. “I just ran into the grocery store to get it some litter and food, and these ladies come and—“
“Okay, okay,†Said the policeman, interrupting my plea of mercy. “Look, I do not care about this, but the people,†he raised his eyebrows. “The people they look at da face.â€
“The face?â€
“Yes, they see me, they see you and I have to show the people the face, eh. Show me your document·â€
“My passport, what? What do you want to see?â€
“A document,†he snaps his fingers.
I gave him my Spanish driver’s license and asked him, “Are you going to give me a ticket?â€
“No, look,†said the policeman. “I write something now, but I really write nothing. You see me write, I write nothing, but the people, the people they see the face, eh. You go now.†I left with a little less pride, an uppity cat, and everything intact.
Heroes:
Everyone who served with me in the deployments to the desert and survived to talk about it.
