The Carolinian

The Carolinian was scheduled to depart New York's Penn Station at 7:05 AM. Neil had paid $151 plus $43 for a business seat upgrade. He was going to Charlotte to live and start a new job. Lanky at 6-5, he needs to extend himself. Having just graduated from Babson College in Wellesley, MA, a mortgage trainee position awaits him at Bank of America. The rail ride was scheduled for 13 hours and 9 minutes. Neil Penrod could have driven US 81 via Google maps in 10 hours and 39 minutes. If he had a car, he could have saved time, but he didn't even have a license to drive.

Leigh Warren and Neil hooked up two summers ago when they were kicking around Newburyport, Massachusetts. Leigh's Gramp, Henry Warren, was a New England blueblood. The Warren's drew roots from the Mayflower. They were direct descendants of passenger Richard Warren. When Richard died in 1628 in Plymouth, he left a widow, Elizabeth, and seven children. Elizabeth outlived Richard by 45 years, passing when she was 90. At the time of her death, Elizabeth had seventy-five grandchildren. Elizabeth's kids bred like rabbits. Indeed. There must be something in that name.

In the summer of '08, Leigh Carroway Warren had been sent up from North Carolina to spend the summer with Gramps Henry. He was getting on in years and granddaughter Leigh drew the short straw. The old ramshackle family house on Warren Street (coincidence) was going to be sold on September 1st. Henry Warren, who claimed he was being sent to die at the Veteran's Home down on Peabody Street, needed some help. The third of his three strokes left him too weak on the left side to drive or to cut the grass or to do much else. Despite the fact that Henry had a full time caretaker, Amos Wright, Paul Warren wanted his daughter to be in Newburyport. It was Paul, who arranged Leigh's tour of duty. Leigh was 19 on August 2nd, 2008. Hey 19, a sweet age.

Neil Penrod was not a blueblood, although if you heard his name you could be fooled. It would be as hard to pigeonhole Neil as it would be to label Barack Obama. Like the President's mother, Neil's mother, Molly Hister, was as white as a bleached sheet. And like Mr. Obama, Neil's dad was a black man from Africa. Jamaal Penrod, by the way, could make a saxaphone talk. So are Barack and Neil white or black or maroon or ochre or magenta? Can you really categorize people by colors? Whenever people asked Neil stupid questions he would say "male" or "American". Neil, in the summer of 2008, was waiting tables at David's Tavern on Brown Square in Newburyport, Massachusetts. His roommate, Jeff Stanley, at Babson College got him the summer job. On August 2nd, 2008 Neil was 20 years and 2 months old.

The Yankee Festival, the 51st celebrated in Newburyport, was held from July 27th through August 3rd. The fireworks display at Cashman Park was perhaps the cherry on the hot fudge sundae of a week. A good sized crowd of celebrants crammed the small Merrimac River park that night. Leigh Warren walked down to watch. Henry had had a bad day and Amos put him to bed before it was even dark enough to turn the bedroom lights on. Up to this point in the summer, Leigh had sold some furniture and other stuff in three yard sales and she filled out so many forms that her left hand hurt. Henry was dwindling and he took on the look of a man waiting for that one phone call which would put him on his knees.

In truth, fireworks are, well, overrated. Boom, boom followed red and yellow and blue and green and white flashes. Light travels faster than sound so that's why you see the explosion before you hear it. The festivities had begun with some preliminary blasts. Leigh was swigging a 12 ounce bottle of Piels beer, as she stood struggling to see the summer sky. She had copped four beers out of Gramp's basement fridge. Besides the one she was downing, she carried three more in her backpack. Henry had stowed a couple of cases in the old Frigidaire and since he was no longer drinking, well, why waste 'em. Some too big mountain yeti with boulder shoulders and a near shaved head obstructed her view. He had sweet buns and at 5-1, Leigh was more or less in line with them. The people around her gave her no room to move, so she had little choice but to barter. Tapping Neil in the small of his back, she said, "Hey Stretch, I'll trade you a Piels, if I can get in front of you." And so it started.



When eye lock happens, chemicals must go nuts in the brain. Not eye contact, eye lock. Two people get into eye lock by happenstance or luck or chance. You can't control it, buy it or sell it. Scientists have studied human attraction and it just can't be entirely defined. If ever you have been lucky enough to experience it, you never forget it. As Neil responded to the back tap, he turned and there he saw the most precious thing he had ever seen before. Toussled dirty blond hair with green brown eyes, a cute, upturned nose and full lips, Leigh could make a man squeeze. Neil, well, Neil had Leigh before he turned around. When he smiled all of heaven showered down on the North Carolinian. He was a hunk.

August of 2008 for Leigh and Neil was a whirlwind of sun, Plum Island, sweet smells and skin. When you are in the zone, the zone of infatuation and love, skin is like a solar panel. It takes in energy and makes energy, all the while feeling like the best thing you ever touched. Labor day weekend was the worst. Separation for the inseparable couple can only be explained by a person, who has had his appendix removed without anesthesia. He was headed back to Babson for junior year and she was going back to North Carolina to start her college career as a Tar Heel.

And so it went. Love overpowers all. You couldn't even begin to count the texts, emails, iChats and smoke signals they shared. They spent every break together, Neil in North Carolina or Leigh in Massachusetts or a meeting somewhere in between. It was as good as it gets, plain and simple.

Niel's mother, Molly, lives in Oklahoma. She followed a trucker out there after he brought her to the promised land three times in one night, eight years ago. She has never met Leigh. Jamaal Penrod, went back to Ghana, a month or two after Neil was born. He was illegal and Molly refused to marry him. Neil rarely saw Molly and he has never met his Dad. Sad, really.

The Warren's, Paul and Constance, like Neil as much as possible. He was a great fellow, but... They didn't outwardly object to Leigh's selection, but they hoped she would come to her senses. She was a Warren, after all. Considering how they really feel, they do indeed behave like gentle people. Leigh has just finished her sophomore year and she is planning to spend as much time with Neil as possible. With Neil's Bank of America position in Charlotte, things are looking better. Chapel Hill is about 2 hours away from Charlotte by car. And Leigh has a Miata.

"All Aboard". The Carolinian was departing on time. By the time the train was passing through Baltimore, the Warrens - Paul, Constance and Leigh - were brunching. It was a warm early June Sunday morning and it was going to be summer hot. Leigh, who would never overtly disagree with her parents, cried as she learned that she was going to spend her junior year abroad. Abroad meant Paris. Leigh understood the year outside the country would be great, but she would miss Neil. And she knew he had taken the job in Charlotte to be close to Chapel Hill. Although she didn't want to think it, some neuron, maybe in her temporal lobe, thought Paul and Constance had another motive.

His Apple iPhone4 sprang to life around DC. Neil thinks its odd for her to call, she usually texts. Through the clack, clack, clack of the steel wheels on steel rails, he said,

"Hello."

"Paris, umm."

"When"

"Uh, September. ohh."

"But, we can still spend the summer together, right?"

"It's Ok... Ok... good, good, no problem, I love you.

"Ok...OK, I'll meet you at the train station around 8:15."

'Bye."

Neil used the lower front end of his "Babson Athletics" tee shirt to dab the water from his eyes. He always had allergies and he deluded himself into thinking there must be a thick patch of pollen invading car 798. With his mind racing, with his gut aching, he becomes as resourceful as a caged cat. The iPhone is much more than a phone. With a few screen touches Neil comes up with an address:

51 Rue Francois 1er
750008 Paris, France

Yessiree, Bank of America has an office in Paris. And Paris is a city made for lovers. Rosetta Stone, French, Volumes 1,2 and 3 are EBay Buy It Now priced at $249. Touch, touch and touch. Done. And so it goes.

The Flying Car, Terrafugia Transition

The flying car is almost a reality. The Federal Aviation Administration approved the Terrafugia Transition as a "Light Sport Aircraft". The ingenious device is about 50 kilograms overweight, mostly the result of having to include motor vehicle safety devices such as airbags and crumple zones. The FAA said as long as the buyer is made aware of the additional weight the Light Sport Aircraft classification could be used. The LSA classification allows users to meet only 20 hours of training before they can fly! http://www.terrafugia.com/aircraft.html

The Terrafugia Transition "roadable" aircraft – a stylish combination of light aeroplane and car – has been granted useful exemptions by the US Department of Transportation.Following representations by Terrafugia to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), it has been agreed that production Transitions can use "tires that are appropriately rated for highway speeds and the vehicle weight". They will also be allowed to substitute lightweight polycarbonate windows for traditional automotive safety glass, which is not only heavy but could shatter in such a way as to obscure a pilot's vision in an airborne bird-strike situation.... according to the new spec a fully-fuelled Transition will be able to lift only 330lb of passengers and payload: it can't get airborne carrying two normal American men. Also the price has ballooned from $148k to $250k. http://www.theregister.co.uk/2011/07/04/transition/

The TT was flight tested in Plattsburgh New York in March and it passed with flying accolades. It flew! It can travel at speed of 115 mph and it has a flight range of 400 miles. The TT does need a flat take off area or a short runway. The TT can be converted from plane to car or vice versa in 30 seconds.

The TT uses regular unleaded fuel both in road and air modes. As a car it can travel at 65 mph. The price is starting at around $200,000. Right now, if a person is interested, you can place a $10,000 deposit, execute buying agreements and be placed in the production queue. Currently, there are 70 orders for the TT and it is expected that they will be on the road, er, in the air by the end of 2011.



How cool is this? If the TT works it is going to turn the notion of commuting and travel on its head. To put it another way, this concept is a game changer. It's too early to know whether the TT will turn out to be an oddity, or a curiosity like the Amphicar.



The Amphicar was produced in the early 1960's. There were some 4,000 or so produced. They remain a popular novelty collector item, but the need and demand for the vehicle was limited. Although it is difficult of know with certainty, but the concept of flying your car is more sexy than using it as a boat.

For now, start rewatching the Jetsons. Besides the flying cars, there may be other fanciful stuff which may become reality.

WANT ONE??

$10,000 down is all it takes

E cosi va...

America's Health Care Sucks, It's Also Expensive

OMG, America's health care sucks. Based on a recently released study by the Commonwealth Foundation, the United States comes in last or next to last in the following parameters of a high performance health system:


Quality,
Access,
Efficiency,
Equity, and
Healthy lives.



The seven countries in the study include the United Kingdom, Germany, the Netherlands, Australia, Canada the United States and New Zealand. The data from the seven countries is compared. It incorporates physicians' and patients' questionnaires, experiences and their ratings of care.

Overall the U.S. ranks last as it did in 2004, 2006 and 2007. The Netherlands ranks first, while the U.K and Australia rank a close second and third. The most notable difference between the other six countries and the U.S. is universal health care. The U.S. does not have it.

Another startling statistic is the fact that despite America's abysmal performance it ranks FIRST in per capita health care costs. Considering the cash inflows, the U.S. should do much better than last place. A reasonable American might ask, "Why do we spend so much and get so little? Where does all of the money go?"

During the recent Obama health care push, universal health systems, such as those in Canada and the U.K, were panned. It would be a good idea for those critics to reevaluate their barbs and recognize that the citizens of both the U.K. and Canada have better health care than Americans and at a lesser cost. Obama, himself, needs to review his actions. A universal system is the only effective way to provide health care for a population group. He ran with a promise, but he came up way short. He settled for less, effectively throwing more money at a bloated, ineffective health care system. His tweaks promulgate a health care system, which will still not afford health care for all Americans.

Americans still chortle that they have the best health care in the world. The Commonwealth study does not support this braggadocio. Before any constructive action can be taken, Americans must acknowledge their system is broken. After that, be clever. Study the systems of the six countries ahead of us and then cheat. Take the best of what they do and then put it into play. Why try to reinvent the wheel?

Diabesity, Cash in Them Thar Sweet Rolls

Two thirds of Americans are overweight or obese. Consequent to the enthusiasm with which high density food is ingested, there has been an explosion in diabetes. A coined term for both conditions is diabesity. A walk through any mall or public venue is rife with diabestics. And there is money to be made in that sea of foamy lipids.

Three pharmaceutical companies are trying to harvest some of the fat in this epidemic. At present, each has a weight reduction drug, with reasonable potential in their respective pipelines.

Arena Pharmaceuticals (ARNA) Lorcaserin
Vivus (VVUS) QNEXA
Orexigen Therapeutics (OREX) Contrave







Lorcaserin is a novel single agent that represents the first in a new class of selective serotonin 2C receptor agonists. This receptor is expressed in the hypothalmus, an area of the brain in control of appetite and metabolism. Stimulation of the receptor alters satiety and eating behavior. The drug has great promise.

Qnexa is a combination of two know drugs. Phentermine (Adipex) and topiramate (Topamax) are the active ingredients. In its clinical trials, Qnexa has been effective in promoting weight reduction. This product has a decent chance of FDA approval.

Contrave is a combination of naltrexone and buproprion. This study, of 505 patients, found that patients lost an average of 5 percent of their body weight over a year on the Orexigen treatment, compared with 1.8 percent weight loss for those on a placebo. While that data wasn't as compelling as many investors hoped for, researchers found an important secondary benefit. About 44 percent of those on the Orexigen treatment reached a healthy threshold of blood sugar control, compared with 26 percent on a placebo. Of the three products, only Contrave promotes a healthy blood sugar while facilitating weight reduction. This feature may make Contrave the most desirable, hence successful, of the three entries.

It is clear that one or two or all of these products will be approved for sale. It is equally clear that the need for a weight reduction "pill" will make any or all of them winners. So, the interested investor will reap part of the imminent profits only if he/she puts some cash at risk. Are you in?

Al Gore Bites the Dust

Another one bites the dust. This time it's Al Gore, the man with the kind of name you say in one great exhalation. "ALGORE". The National Enquirer has blown a hole into the side of Algore, much like a 15 kg cannonball fired into a wooden frigate. An unnamed rub down professional has accused Mr. Gore of sexual misconduct. She refers to the man from Tennessee as a "sex poodle" and a "lummox".

These charges arose as a result of a massage session in Mr. Gore's hotel room in 2006. The masseuse asserts that the ex-Vice President became frisky during a massage. The anonymous accuser's charges were investigated but the authorities did not proceed with more than a preliminary investigation. Up until now the masseuse, who is duly licensed in Oregon, did not want to be subjected to the rigors of the legal process.

The National Enquirer, a newspaper with a schizophrenic sense of duty, reports that the mystery woman asked for one million US $ for an interview. The Enquirer said no and it proceeded to report her story based on the police report, which is publicly available. Barry Levine, the executive editor, said that the newspaper did not notify Mr. Gore of their plans nor did they seek his input. The reason Mr. Gore was omitted from the launch of the story was the paper's fear he would send out a pre-emptive news story of his own. In doing so, he would have presumably dampened the Enquirer's coup and diminished their profit margin.

Al Gore has fallen from his pedestal of late, beginning with the announcement that he and his high school sweetheart wife of some 40 years, Tipper, are separated. Everybody likes to believe in the happy, monogamous couple. When a marriage icon crashes, disappointment and sadness come forth. Naturally, one can't help but think the breakup is related to another lover. In Mr. Gore's case, Laurie David, was quickly identified as the home wrecker. Whether this is indeed true is not clear. Ms. David and Algore deny such a liaison.



From a journalistic standpoint, the Enquirer's actions are not only greedy and rash, but unfair. The front paged accused Mr. Gore deserves better. The salacious sub headline, that the red haired fingerer saved her stained black work pants, smacks of Monica Lewinsky. A Gap blue dress carried the spew of Bill Clinton, the inference is that the aforesaid black pants carry Algore's DNA. One has to wonder what the masseuse from Oregon was thinking when she stashed her pants?

An average person, seeing this front page while waiting for $220 worth of groceries to be bagged in front of him, will dive into this story. The work-a-day Joe or Josette will tell at least three or more others by starting with, "Did you hear about Al Gore..." Later, when the dust settles, the National Enquirer will have no follow-up headlines, unless the details are more salacious than they appear now. Perish the thought that Al Gore is vindicated, the NE is off of that story.

It must be difficult to be a famous person. TMZ, paparazzi, scheming opportunists, the Star, the NE love to vet and to expose you. Sometimes its easy, like Kobe and Tiger and Jesse and Michael and Charles. And don't forget Jack and Ike and John and Franklin. All philanderers. The jury is out on Algore and this is still America. He is innocent until proven otherwise. Hey, National Enquirer, think before you ink.

USA Beats Ghana (And Everybody Else)

The United States ranks first in obese citizens. For many, who think Americans are losing their competitive edge, that news is disappointing. To those naysayers, be clear, we can compete, we are #1! Although Ghana beat the USA at the World Cup yesterday, the Ghanans go down to defeat in the bulky body habitus competition. Ghana didn't even make the list of the top 30 fattest countries. Hah.

The World Health Organization cites energy dense foods and lack of exercise as the major underlying etiologies for America's leadership role in calorie storage. Americans enjoy fat loaded, high fructose corn syrup delicacies. Just go to any supermarket and count the bags and bags of neato, colorful confections available to anyone with a few bucks. And with fast food chain Sodom and Gomorrahs on every corner, we can get a fat and salt fill anytime and anywhere. Although most of us have never been to Ghana, a reasonable American would guess that our African brothers can't compete with us when it comes to really, really dense calorie availability.

So, Ghana beat us in soccer or futbol or whatever you want to call it. So, so what! Whenever the World Table Games begin, we will crush them. Really, we will.

Percentage of obese citizenry by country. Read 'em and weep.

Rank Countries %

# 1 United States: 30.6%
# 2 Mexico: 24.2%
# 3 United Kingdom: 23%
# 4 Slovakia: 22.4%
# 5 Greece: 21.9%
# 6 Australia: 21.7%
# 7 New Zealand: 20.9%
# 8 Hungary: 18.8%
# 9 Luxembourg: 18.4%
# 10 Czech Republic: 14.8%
# 11 Canada: 14.3%
# 12 Spain: 13.1%
# 13 Ireland: 13%
# 14 Germany: 12.9%
= 15 Portugal: 12.8%
= 15 Finland: 12.8%
# 17 Iceland: 12.4%
# 18 Turkey: 12%
# 19 Belgium: 11.7%
# 20 Netherlands: 10%
# 21 Sweden: 9.7%
# 22 Denmark: 9.5%
# 23 France: 9.4%
# 24 Austria: 9.1%
# 25 Italy: 8.5%
# 26 Norway: 8.3%
# 27 Switzerland: 7.7%
= 28 Japan: 3.2%
= 28 Korea, South: 3.2%
Weighted average: 14.1%

The Hat

Harry Abracciavento, at 86, has outlived any reason to be alive. It's not that he had much reason to begin with since he and his wife, Antonia, never had any children. When you get old, you need kids to keep you young, sort of like a flower needs water to keep it looking fresh. Antonia died six years ago. Harry had her cremated and then he went on Captain Andy's sunset flounder cruise and he dumped her ashes in the Atlantic Ocean. The fisherman on "The Flatfish" thought it was odd that this 5-4 stump boarded without any tackle. He carried only a shoe box.

Harry had always been a frugal man. When confronted with a possible ten grand ticket to plant Antonia, Harry shopped. He knew a guy, Flower Manganelli, who used to book out of his butcher shop. When Harry worked as a collector for Sweet Tart Pisciotti, Flower would be on his route. He hated to pick up Flower's tickets because they always had smudges of cow or pig or chicken blood on them. Sometimes on Wednesdays, when Flower made sausage, the tickets would be stained with other colors, maroons and yellows and browns. Flower's son-in-law, Cedric Lawton, was an alcoholic mortician. Harry tracked down Flower, then Cedric. Cedric was working for the Incavallo Mortuary. For a bottle of cheap vodka and $300, Cedric ashed Antonia on a slow Friday afternoon.

After keeping the ashes, which were in a Thom McAn shoebox, in the garage next to the WD-40 for about a year, Harry decided to give Antonia a burial at sea. This was peculiar. Toni neither knew how to swim nor had she ever been on a boat in her life. To make the decision to go to sea even more strange, Antonia Moretti Abracciavento hated the ocean and she had icthyophobia (a fear of fish). Despite all of this hubbub, Harry reckoned it was a clean way to dispose of the cremains. Harry's favorite movie, the 1956 classic with Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab, was Moby Dick. Harry, who lived the longest, got to call the shots. Besides, it only cost $6 to go out with Captain Andy on "The Flatfish". Harry was always a numbers man and he oft repeated, "You figure it out, ten grand versus a bottle of Smirnoff's plus $300 plus $6 plus the shoe box form my Oxfords." Harry liked to save money.

After Toni died Harry was between a rock and a hard place. Without any living relatives or children, Harry was lonely. He liked to tell corny jokes, the kind old men tell. You laughed when they laughed, the punch lines were often obscure and off the point. Harry always wore a Members Only jacket. It didn't matter how cold it was, that's all Harry ever wore. Only in the dead of summer, when the thermometer reached 80 or above did he lose the jacket. The other notable thing was that Harry never took the jacket off when he came inside. So if he went to the senior center to play gin rummy or he went to the diner for a platter, the jacket stayed put. These jackets were popular in the 1980's



Harry also always wore a Bailey's NewsBoy hat. George Bailey began designing hats in 1922 in the Hollywood Hills. One time, years ago, when Flipper DeAngelis was a double sawbuck short on his weekly deposit to Sweet Tart, he sold Harry a box of two dozen purloined NewsBoys for $20. Harry has been wearing these same hats for twenty-five years.



Everybody Harry knows or has ever known has had a nickname, a moniker to live by. Harry is known as "The Hat", not Hat, "The Hat". From time to time, someone would call Harry, Hat, and the mild mannered Calabrian would 'show his ass'. Not really show his ass. 'Show your ass' is a slang term for exhibiting anger. You see Harry was a long time fan of Harry the Hat Walker (1916-1999). Walker was a baseball man, back when baseball players were tough. Harry played eleven seasons and he had a lifetime batting average of .296. He won the National League batting title in 1947, hitting at at .363. Harry Walker got his nickname from his habit of twirling and twisting his baseball hat when he was in the on deck circle. Harry Abracciavento got his name because he always wore a NewsBoy hat.

A typical day for The Hat centers on his evacuation. He eats a fiber cereal and some fruit and he drinks two cups of high test. He reads the Trentonian and then he waits. On good days, he delivers smooth and easy. Most days are gradations of less than good. Once this process ends, usually by noon, Harry drives his '88 Olds here and there. He calls this taking a ride. Usually he sees lots of other people taking rides, too. At any given time, Harry the numbers man figures 25% of cars on the streets of Trenton are being piloted by people taking rides.

Besides the senior center, Harry will drop into his doctor's office. Dr. Gianluigi Esposito likes The Hat, but sometimes the unscheduled visits cause a ruckus. Harry enjoys shooting the bull. He is happy to sit in the waiting room and kibbutz. His favorite targets are women. He rolls out the tired jokes. The Hat offers the patients lollipops, which he collects from TD Banks. Several branches are on his itinerary. Although he generally doesn't hand these out in the office, his pockets are usually filled with sugar and Splenda from Starbucks.

The Hat's kidneys are failing. Kidney disease is insidious. The victim gradually gets more ill, but it creeps up so slowly that by the time you're realize you are sick, you need dialysis. Harry has already told Gianluigi, "no dialysis, no ventilators and no artificial anything". When Harry's time comes, he is confident his doctor will be his advocate.

Harry The Hat has shared most of his stories with Dr. Esposito. Several times over. The Doctor, for his part, knows someday soon he will be boarding "The Flatfish", the Thom McAn Oxford, size 8 shoebox under his arm. It will be the second time for the shoebox, the second time for Harry and the first time for Doctor Espo.

The Hat never told the Doc how he used to take a little cash from Sweet Tart's collections, just a little every day of every week for 34 years. Indeed! Sweet wasn't that good with numbers. He never told him because he never told anyone, not even Antonia. He never told him that he has three large safe deposit boxes at Roma Savings on Hamilton Avenue. They are filled to their brims with one hundred dollar bills. One day soon, when Harry's kidneys poison him to death, Giancarlo Esposito will become the new owner of a Members Only jacket, a NewsBoy hat and three little keys. Ahh, you just never know.

Ice Hockey Again and Again

Sweaty and out of sorts, she asked no one in particular, "How'd I play?'" Her mother, her sister, a younger teammate and the older dad of the teammate all paused. It was the kind of pause you might experience when you ask your girlfriend, who has cold feet, to move in with you. The pause oddly says it all. Pauses in the main are not good things. Noodle knew she didn't have a good game, she knew deep down in her heart, but she was looking for some encouragement. And then they began to move their lips...

Sister, "Dad's in the car, he's pissed."
Older dad of teammate, "You played a great game, yeah, you really looked good."
Mom, "Dad thinks you weren't aggressive enough."
The teammate said nothing. She had her own demons because she never thinks she plays well.

It was a hot, seasonable summer day. It was a day when it was good to be in a hockey rink. Generally, hockey rinks are inhospitable. For the most part they are cold, damp and smelly. The smell is unique, a combination of malodorous hockey equipment, cheesy skate stink, sweat and mold. Rinks are always water soaked. There must be some fungi, who love the cold damp environs. Noodle and Gaby's Green team had just lost to the Purple team in an inelegant display of skating, stick handling and shooting. Too bad, there were at least 15 college hockey coaches scouting for some phenom to make themselves look smart.

These camp girls were hoping to catch on with a college hockey team. In a perverse way, the whole camp arrangement reminded Carl Tedesco of the Mustang Ranch. He went there once when he was visiting Reno on business. All of the prostitutes strutted their stuff when he walked in, hoping he would pick them. Carl, who is 70, is an avid girl's hockey follower. He has been going to games, camps and practices for 30 years, ever since his Nellie, Class of '80, played for the Taft School. Nellie and Carl no longer talk.

Being a high schooler could be described as the best of times and the worst of times. Carl always thought high schools should be built in a pyramidal shape. By the time the students spend their four years in the pyramid, only a small percentage will reach the top. The disappointment, the self deprecation, the ego crush and the demoralization of all the students, who fall off the pyramid, are under appreciated. Carl had been watching the 150 hockey athletes for the last 3 days and he knows there are only 7 or so legitimate Division 1 candidates. Life can be tough.

As Carl passed Noodle and her group, he couldn't help observe the minidrama. He was a keen observer, blessed with good vision and good ears, but cursed with a lousy gallbladder. Today, before the Green-Purple game, he saw a large player sitting on a rink bench, a D, no doubt. She was up against the wall, literally. Tears ran down her cheeks. A trainer was splinting her right wrist. An older woman was sitting next to the fallen gladiator. Carl surmised it was the hockey player's mother. She told Midget to suck it up. Midget, now there's a name that fits! Mom implored, "Tomorrow's game will be huge". Carl thought that the wrist might be broken. It was.

The old man headed for the corner glass. In his opinion, that is the best place to see the action. The Babson rink has a few steps by the corner spot and two people were standing on them, so that their vision line was higher than his. The couple looked alike, as if they were married too long. The man was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with "Give Blood, Play Hockey". Around his neck hung a small, but expensive Hitachi video recorder. His squeeze was wearing a denim jacket from the Gap with a belly button baring white top. The ornament dangling into her umbilical hole was a set of crossed hockey sticks with the number "10" superimposed on the stick shafts. From her neck, a digital Nikon SLR split her pillows. The telephoto lens could have double duty at the Mustang Ranch. The proud couple was putting together a video for #10. Many people do videos so they can send them to the coaches and scouts, who couldn't see their player any other way.

One of the player's on the Purple team looked like Nellie did 30 years ago. Nellie was 5-5 and quick as a cat. She shot left. Left is always more classy than right and indeed Nellie was one classy player. Carl did all the crazy stuff he saw every time he went to a rink. In fact, the old 8mm movie camera he used to cart around and film Nellie was still in his attic. Sometimes, late at night, Carl will set up the screen and run the film.

A few years after Nellie graduated from Taft, when she was student at Tufts, Carl took off. He left Nellie's mother, Sybil. Left her like a man, who is drinking and walking down the street, leaves an empty beer bottle on the curb. He was 44 and he wanted to have a little fun. He beat feet for Key West. Key West is also known as the Conch Republic. The city tried to secede from the Union and set up its own government. It is that kind of place. Carl blended into the local fauna for eleven years. He holed up with a Cuban woman with a past for a few years. So, Carl and Soledad, two people with histories, passed some time and had some fun in Key West, Florida. Soledad slipped out one night and went back to Cuba. Carl never understood why anyone would go back to Cuba.

When Carl was 55 he returned to Natick. Sybil, as crazy nuts for Carl as a love struck teenager, took him back. Nellie, however, did not. She told Carl, "You're dead to me." And she meant it. Carl did tried to schmooze Nellie, but Nellie isn't Sybil. The hole in Carl's heart and the gap in his soul cannot be repaired. Maybe that's why he hangs around hockey rinks. Maybe when he sees a girl, who reminds him of his Nellie, a little bit of that hole and a little bit of that gap get filled in. Who knows?

As Carl climbs into his two door Jeep Cherokee, he feels that familiar right upper quadrant pain. It radiates to his right upper back. He knows the nausea is coming. Vomiting often follows the nausea. A cheesesteak is not a pretty sight in reverse. Carl knows better than to eat fatty, greasy food, but sometimes he is weak. He pulls out of the parking lot, the nausea passes, he stops sweating. The gall bladder attack has passed. As he drives down Route 3 West towards Natick, he decides that tonight he is going to watch Nellie again. And again. Again...

Live Free and Not Die

"Live Free or Die" is the motto of New Hampshire. This motto was a shortened version of "Live Free or Die; Death is Not the Worst of Evils". These words were stated by General John Stark, who was New Hampshire's most famous Revolutionary War hero. Sylvie Preble always thought that the motto was shortened to fit the automobile license plate. Silly girl. Sylvie somehow came up with this whack idea when she was studying the case of Wooley v Maynard, 430 U.S. 705 (1977) in her civics class at Keene High School. In Wooley, George Maynard, a Jehovah's Witness, covered up the "or Die" part of his license plate motto. He was convicted for altering a license plate. The United State Supreme Court in a 6-3 decision held that Maynard had a right to his free speech. Maynard believed in his church's teaching that life was eternal and that "die" was not an acceptable concept.



At this point in her life Sylvie has increasing concerns about death. It's not that she's sick or even looks sick. Quite the opposite. She is a fit, former Keene State College soccer player, who still has the dirty blonde draw she had when she was twenty. Just the sight of her makes most guys push their lips out a little. It's a primal thing. Her problem is rooted in some lousy blood test. Sylvie volunteered to give blood at the New Hampshire teacher's Blood 4 Life campaign at the Hampton Beach convention last month. She was told she had an elevated liver enzyme test, which led to hepatitis testing. She is positive for Hepatitis C. Bummer.

Dr. Orville Pappandreas, a bloat of man, is the liver shaman in lower New Hampshire. He's one of those doctors who advocate "do as I say, not as I do." While some might call Pappy a hypocrite, doctors like him are given a w i d e berth. Not only is the Greek derivative 150 pounds overweight, he smokes and drinks, both to excess. And he smells like a blend of cigarettes and onions. Despite his overall physical decrepitude, Sylvie likes him. Only a deity could understand.

Hepatitis C is an interesting disease. 10% of persons infected with Hepatitis C clear the virus and develop immunity. The other 90% develop a chronic illness. In about 80% of those persons, the disease does not progress to cirrhosis or liver cancer. It runs an indolent course. In the other 20% of persons, the disease develops into a serious, life threatening illness in the form of cirrhosis or liver cancer. Since it is impossible to predict which persons will develop a life threatening condition, it is prudent to offer treatment to all. The treatment with interferon (weekly injection) and ribavirin (tablets by mouth twice a day) is successful in only 60% of cases. And the treatment is problematic. Side effects galore can arise; malaise, viral symptoms, weight loss, anorexia, anemia, muscle aches and more. Ugh.

Treatment may extend anywhere from 3 to 12 months. This depends on the responses to treatment and the genotype of the Hepatitis virus with which the patient is infected. Genotype 1 responds less well and it requires longer therapy. Genotypes 2 and 3 respond better and require shorter therapy. Sylvie has genotype 2. A good thing as things go.

Sylvie is thirty-seven and has been teaching English at Keene High School, her alma mater, for twelve years. She married Brandon Preble eleven years ago. While she was a devoted wife, Brandon was a devoted player. She so wanted children, she put up with Brandon's shenanigans for at least three years beyond the useful life of their marriage. She kept thinking that if she and Brandon could oven one, they would come back together as a couple. It never happened. They divorced two years ago.

Brandon, among other bad habits, frequented strip clubs during the marriage. Although Sylvie doesn't know it, Brandon still does. At one point, Brandon fell hard for a dancer named, Primavera. This led to two unwanted results. The first was the precipitation of the divorce. Despite an intervention, Brandon could not rid himself of his desire for Primavera. The second was more slow footed. Primavera has hepatitis C and Brandon got hepatitis C. And now Sylvie has hepatitis C. Sylvie would bet the ranch that they all have the same genotype. Oh yeah.

Sylvie isn't sure of what to do. Her options include doing nothing, taking the interferon and ribavirin or getting a liver biospy. The latter may guide treatment pending the stage and grade of the disease. The biopsy procedure has a small associated risk, but on balance is a reasonable alternative. Pappy favors treatment. He doesn't think Sylvie has advanced disease and he further believes he has a good chance of eradicating the virus. Sylvie has read about some doctors using high dosages of an herb, milk thistle, to treat hepatitis C. Pappy has no faith in it, but he is used to attempts at cure from herbal remedies. When Sylvie told him about the milk thistle remedy, the portly physician screwed his face up like he had Limburger cheese stuck in his left nostril.

Sylvie is angry at the stupid Brandon and the conniving Primavera. Primavera and Brandon don't know it yet but they are both going to meet Sheriff's deputy, Roscoe P. Warmtrane, of Cheshire County tomorrow. He is going to personally serve them. Sylvie's lawyer, Donald Cheatham, filed suit for negligent infliction of emotional distress against them and the Fantazee Club. The suit lists pain and suffering and possible death as damages. Cheatham is seeking one million dollars. Whew.

Cheatham is going to learn that Primavera isn't the only hepatitis C carrier working at the Fantazee. Indeed, two other dancers are spreading joy. In fact, by the time it's over, six other Keeners will be diagnosed with hep C and they, too, will be meeting the Greek god. And Sylvie dosen't know it yet, but her biopsy will reveal minimal disease, grade 1, stage 1. And even better, she will repsond to treatment and she will clear the virus. Best of all, the Fantazee Club insurance carrier, Yankee Ltd., will settle her case for $250,000. Ah, she will live free and not die. Just like Mr. Maynard.

It's Not You, It's Me

Like a two by four to the back of the head, it came out of nowhere. Sometimes the best and the worst things that happen to a person do that, they come out of nowhere. It was a fine May evening, Jasper Simkins was studying for his Applied Computer Science final. He had a high B average to date. He wanted to ace the final and consequently ace the course. An A would boost his cumulative average. A cum over 3.5 was his goal. He was going to apply to Duquesne's Law School as a senior, next year.

Nora Norcross' name lit up his G3S iPhone. He had it on silent mode, since he was in the library. The librarian at Rutgers was a stickler for cell phone etiquette. Midge Pickens grew up without a cell. She flat out didn't like them. If she was a few generations older, she would have hated indoor plumbing. It was odd that Nora was calling, since Jasper and Nora mostly texted. Jasper let the call go to voice, daring not take the call with Ms. Pickens on patrol. He opted to study for another hour and check out the call later. Just as well as it turned out.

Nora was in her third year of study at the University of Maryland-College Park. She was a business major and she, too, was thinking about graduate school. Her plan was to graduate from Maryland, then to work for a large firm for a few years and then to pursue an MBA. Her aunt, Madge Norcross, worked for Deloitte and as a result of Madge's influence, Nora got a summer internship starting in three weeks. She would be working in the Miami, Florida office. There's always a straw that breaks the camel's back.

Nora and Jasper were a couple since they graduated from the Hun School in 2007. Hun is a private boarding prep school in Princeton, NJ. Both were good students and acceptable athletes. They had known each other casually since they were freshman, but it was in Mr. Henry's, History and Contemporary Values course, that they clicked. It started with some silly light hearted teasing, then some less inane conversations in the Sack, which led to a movie. They saw Disturbia.



Here's a synopsis of what they saw:

After his father's death, Kale (Shia LaBeouf) becomes sullen, withdrawn, and troubled - so much so that he finds himself under a court-ordered sentence of house arrest. His mother, Julie (Carrie-Anne Moss), works night and day to support herself and her son, only to be met with indifference and lethargy.

The walls of his house begin to close in on Kale. He becomes a voyeur as his interests turn outside the windows of his suburban home towards those of his neighbors, one of which Kale begins to suspect is a serial killer. But, are his suspicions merely the product of cabin fever and his overactive imagination? - "Disturbia."

STARRING: Shia LaBeouf, Carrie-Anne Moss, David Morse, Sarah Roemer, Kurt David Anderson, Elyse Mirto
DIRECTOR: D.J. Caruso
STUDIO: Paramount Pictures
RATING: PG-13 (For sequences of terror and violence, and some sensuality)

After the movie they went to Coldstone Creamery. They both chose the same dessert! Ah, two people, same dessert = same endorphin release receptors. They decided to get a single "Coffee Lovers Only" and split it.



Two spoons, one dessert. They both knew what that meant. The ice cream treat was not quite as sweet as the kisses that followed. It only takes one kiss to know. Betty Everett sang it best in 1964 in a song titled, "It's in His Kiss". The song was more commonly known as the Shoop Shoop Song.

Does he love me, I wanna know,
how can I tell if he loves me so?
(Is it in his eyes)
oh no you'll be deceived
(is it in his sighs)
oh no he'll make believe.
If you wanna know
(shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop)
if he loves you so
it's in his kiss
(that's where it is.... oh yeah!)

(Or is it in his face)
oh no it's just his charms
(in his warm embrace)
oh no that's just his arms.
If you wanna know
(shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop shoop)
if he loves you so
it's in his kiss
(that's where it is)
woh-oh, it's in his kiss
(that's where it is).

Woh-oh-oh kiss him..... and squeeze him tight
and find out what you want to know.
If it's love if it really is....it's there in his kiss.
(How 'bout the way he acts)
oh no that's not the way
and you're not listening to all I say.
If you wanna know
(shoop shoop shoop shoop
shoop shoop shoop shoop)
if he loves you so
it's in his kiss
(that's where it is)
woh-oh, it's in his kiss
(that's where it is)

Woh-oh-oh kiss him..... and squeeze him tight
and find out what you want to know.
If it's love if it really is....it's there in his kiss.
(How 'bout the way he acts)
oh no that's not the way
and you're not listening to all I say.
If you wanna know
(shoop shoop shoop shoop
shoop shoop shoop shoop)
if he loves you so
it's in his kiss
(that's where it is)
woh-oh, it's in his kiss
(that's where it is)

Oh yeah it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is),
ooh it's in his kiss (that's where it is).

When love is right, it is a right as rain!

Jasper and Nora were inseparable, two peas in a pod. It was a beautiful thing. For anybody, who has ever been in this state of coupled joy, you know there is simply nothing better. Despite the fact that they attended different universities, the cell phone, text messaging and iChatting made it seem like they were always together. In Ms. Midge Pickens heyday, such things were unimaginable. They had looked forward to summer breaks for each of their first two years. They spent these two terrific summers doing boardwalk jobs in Ocean City, NJ. Jasper's grandparents on his mother's side owned a bungalow on Third Street. They had gotten too old to travel to the bungalow, but they were happy to let their grandson use the house. They only asked that he trim the bushes and cut the grass. So, Jasper and Nora had two idyllic summers. Too bad there would be no third.

This summer Nora is going to Miami to intern at Deloitte. Jasper, as usual, is moving to Third Street and he has a job at Prep's PIzza. He knows it won't be the same without Nora. He has rationalized that it will be OK. After all, he wants her to have her own career. Besides, he will catch a cheap Spirit Air flight out of Atlantic City to Miami every few weeks and he will visit her. Jasper liked South Beach, Coconut Grove and Florida afternoon rain storms. And he loved Nora.

Jasper took a deep breath as he exited the wide heavy library doors. The air had gotten heavy with humidity, showers were predicted for the early morning hours. He listened to Nora's voice message. Her voice seemed as heavy as the air. She simply said, "Call me." If he could go back to that moment in time, he would delete the message. He would skip the call. Too bad.

Ring, one, two, three, half...

Nora "Hi"
Jasper "Hi, what's up, you OK?"
Nora "Er, yeah, uh, gotta tell you something."
Jasper "What, what's wrong?"
Nora "It's not you, it's me..."

That was just the beginning of the modern version of the "Dear John" letter. The words, "It's not you, it's me", are among the worst collection of letters you can ever hear. Nora went on to say that she thought that they should take a break from their relationship. By this point, Jasper had slumped into a bus stop bench. It was nearly PM ten and the buses were only running every fifteen minutes. Good thing, too, only a few students got to see him crying like a fool. Nora said she wasn't sure she loved him anymore. She was quick to say that there was nobody else. Later, Jasper would remember how fast she volunteered the "nobody else". The "nobody else" runs a close second to "it's not you..."

And so it went. Talk, talk and more talk. It is a hard thing for both parties in a break up. The aggressor is guilt ridden and the victim is always trying to remedy the situation. Jasper's friend, Algie Fux (pronounced Fooks), will tell him to keep things simple. He will do so, for the most part, because he believes everything is made out to be too complicated. He will explain to Jasper that it is clear Nora doesn't want to be with him anymore. Relationships break down when the aggressor finds a better deal. Algie will exhort Japser to accept the loss and to move on. Right!

Soon, Jasper will cut the grass and trim the bushes and flip pizza. Nora will be a Deloitte gofer in Miami. Their texts will ebb and ebb and stop by early July. Jasper will change his Facebook status to "S" and by August, Nora will change hers back to, "In a Relationship". Yeah, his name is Jameson Crowthers. His Facebook avatar shows him standing next to Nora outside of a pink art deco hotel somewhere in South Beach. They are both smiling, lots of teeth smiles, smiles liked they just rang the bell. Jameson's page says he's a Terrapin, Class of 2011. He likes Neon Trees, peppermint gum and the Baltimore Ravens. He wants to be a doctor. When Jasper reads this he will want to cry. Ain't love fine! Yup, fine as frog's hair!

Hell Hath No Fury

It could have been a love story, but no. It didn't happen that way. He was the kind of boy who really just wanted to run around. She had hoped that one fine day he would have wanted her for his girl. It's not that she wasn't patient. Two years is more than enough time to give somebody to figure it out. Now he's dead. Dead as a door nail, whatever that means.*

She knows that she is most likely going to get away with the murder. Only about 62% of murders result in a police identification of a probable killer. Worse yet, many of those cases do not result in a conviction for any number of reasons. In reality, at best, half of murders yield a conviction. Shea Kisko has no remorse. Pierce Dunwoody deserved to die.

Shea is a twenty-two year old average woman of average lineage. She is a graduate of Erasmus High School, class of '05. Erasmus High School was once the pride of Brooklyn. As a result of poor test scores and an unwieldy student body, in 1994, Erasmus was broken into four smaller high schools with different centers of study. They all were located on the Erasmus campus and they all used the common lunch room, auditorium and library. Shea attended the Academy for College Preparation and Career Exploration. The Academy's focus was to ready the student to be admitted to the best college possible. Today Erasmus has five component schools.

Although Shea could have gone to college, she was unmotivated. This wasn't so much her fault or a product of her laziness. Some people just need a positive influence. Too bad for her. Her father, Stosh Kisko, died at thirty-nine. He was in a deli on Flatbush Avenue buying some Marlboro Menthols, when he got caught in a robbery gone bad. The deli owner, Herm Bright, unloaded his saw-offed shot gun into two fourteen year old punks, after they demanded the cash drawer. The kids, both of whom had Glocks, likewise lit Herm up. The shorter of the two punks, Simmy Dellacortes, was spun around by the power of the shotgun blast. Simultaneous with his twisting from the force, Simmy fired off to his left. That Glock shot hit Stosh square in the right eye. Bam, kapow, lights out for Stosh and Herm and Bobby Kingston, the taller punk. Simmy lived.

The deli deaths occurred when Shea was a junior at Erasmus. High school students need guidance and Stosh was all the guidance she had. Her mother had taken to cocaine years before. Cocaine addiction and parenthood are incongruent. While she stopped in from time to time, Denise Kosko spent most of her time in Florida. She worked as a rehab center intaker. She got commissions for each person she convinced to rehab at Sea, Sun and Sand Spa. The four "S", as the it was known around Boynton Beach, was a money maker. Lots of parents spent college education sums to rehab their bad seeds. Since Denise was both a former user and a former parent, she could be persuasive. Ta Da.

Upon Stosh's demise, Denise's half sister, Hazel, moved up to Brooklyn to stay with Shea. Hazel and Denise had different fathers. As pasty and white as Denise was, Hazel was ebony, so ebony that people often thought that Hazel came from Nigeria. Hah. Both Denise and Hazel were born and grew up in Atlantic City, New Jersey. After graduation, Shea and Hazel left Brooklyn and they went to live in Hazel's small cottage on Brighton Avenue. Shea tried Atlantic Cape Community College for a semester. She was uninspired.

She learned to deal blackjack and she quickly found a job at the Tropicana. And this is where she met Pierce, whose real name was Luther. He was a slot technician. Luther took on the name Pierce when a drunken, braless women at the five dollar slots told him he looked like Pierce Brosnan. Shea almost missed the obituary, since she only knew Luther as Pierce. There are always surprises when somebody dies.

Pierce was, indeed, a nice looking fellow. He may not have looked quite this good....



...but he wasn't far off. To put it another way, when Luther-Pierce went into a bar, his chances of success approached ninety per cent. Poor Shea, she should have picked a shorter, pot bellied man with a smooth pate. Those men are happy to get a little, a little of anything. Pierce, as it turns out, pissed Shea off one too many times. In 1687, William Congreve penned, The Mourning Bride,

As you'll answer it, take heed
This Slave commit no Violence upon
Himself. I've been deceiv'd. The Publick Safety
Requires he should be more confin'd; and none,
No not the Princes self, permitted to
Confer with him. I'll quit you to the King.
Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;
Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.

Therein is the origin of the modern phrase, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Yeah.

And so right there in Atlantic City, right there in the Tropicana Casino, on a rainy, windy and raw November day, Pierce and Shea found themselves huddled in a small doorway facing the boardwalk. There was a small space where they stood smoking, where they could stay half dry. It is a pity how smokers are treated. They shared a few words. They had never met before despite the fact that they had both worked at the Trop for a few months. The Trop is a big place. Shea had her mother's complexion and Stosh's pale blue eyes. On that day Pierce and Shea began a fatal relationship.

Oh, let's be clear, they at times had it all. Passion, fun, laughs, intimacy, you name it. Two hearts beating as one. When their relationship was right, there was none better. As Shea looks back over the last two years, she sequences the ups and downs. The ups were all the same. They were the wonderful and fun times she spent with Pierce. The downs were all the same too. Only the names changed. Maggie, Jill, Tara, Sandi, Rhonda, Kenda and Francie. Everytime that Lothario interrupted their relationship with another foray into the potential spaces of his conquests, he broke her heart a little more. So for two years she lived the life of a roller coaster lover. Two years is a long time when you're twenty-two. For sure.

Hazel told Shea to get out of the relationship, to quit him. Aunt Hazel's words would ring in Shea's psyche, 'Don't be a fool, he don't love you, cause he wouldn't do what he did." Shea wanted to get out, but she was like a bad poker player, who plays too long. He loses all of his money and then he keeps borrowing in desperation to make it right. It takes a lot to accept the fact that you've lost, the fact that you've been beaten. Shea couldn't. Finally she got mad, real mad. It would have been better to walk away. Oh well.

Shea convinced herself that if she couldn't have Pierce for her own, well, no one else could either. She began to plot and scheme a murder. She knew that the body was the main piece of evidence in any murder. She tried to conceive of ways to kill Pierce and to get rid of his body. Things like fishing trips gone bad to sulfuric acid baths to incineration helped to keep her up at night. The body would be a problem. He weighed two hundred pounds.

Also, she didn't know how she would kill him. She had an aversion to guns after Stosh's murder. She learned a perfect weapon might be an icicle. It melts, no evidence! Nah, way too much blood and too messy. Poison had advantages. If she could find an undetectable poison... A Google search led to

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cerbera_odollam



Cerbera Odollam is known as the poison tree and is indigenous to India and parts of southeast Asia. She learned its seeds contain a heart toxin called “cerberin”, similar in structure to “digoxin”, found in foxglove plants. Digoxin kills by blocking calcium ion channels in heart muscles, which disrupts the heartbeat, causing death. Cerberin worked the same way. Best yet, it's undetectable unless the pathologist at autopsy does liquid and gas chromatography looking for this poison. She doubted anyone would be looking for this poison in New Jersey. Indeed.

She found a seed distributer out of Mumbai, India. For $14.98 plus shipping she received thirty cerbera odollam seeds. Shea used a public computer at the Comfort Inn to place the order. She used a fictitious name, Sam Williams. Williams was Hazel's last name. And she paid by using a money order, which she purchased at the Wawa convenience store on the Black Horse Pike. You don't have to give your name when you buy a money order. Therefore, her name did not appear anywhere, nor was her computer tainted. The only link to her was Hazel's Brighton address, but there was no way Shea comes under scrutiny. The seeds would not easily be associated with her.

Shea ground the seeds to a fine powder. Since the seeds have a strong flavor, she learned it was best to disguise them in a food with a tang. It was her good luck that Pierce liked spicy Mexican food. The restaurant, Mexico, on Ventnor Avenue was one his favorites. They met. Pierce was always happy to see her. He ordered a hot salsa with a large burrito. She was able to mix in the powdered poison into the salsa, when he had to make a pit stop just before the food made it to the table. Pierce had a weak bladder. They laughed and had a seemingly nice dinner. The salsa must have been plenty hot, Pierce noted nothing unusual as he devoured his meal.

She didn't know what to expect. Pierce looked fine after eating. He wanted her to go back to his apartment with him. Shea knew better. She wanted to be somewhere else to establish an alibi. Shea begged off, saying she felt sick. Out of Mexico, Shea went right and Pierce went left. For a moment, as they shared goodbyes, Shea had second thoughts. Then, she ran the names again; Maggie, Jill, Tara, Sandi, Rhonda, Kenda and Francie. Shea guessed there were even more unknown names. The second thoughts passed. Scorn is a powerful amnesiac.

Shea went to the House of Blues. It's on the other end of Atlantic City. The night was young. She talked to lots of people and she danced and she laughed. A waiting cab greeted her when she hit Pacific Avenue. A quick flip of her hand and she hopped in. The cabbie, Willie McAllister, had her home on Brighton in five minutes. Umm, Shea stared at Willie's identification badge. She might need that name.

The obituary said Luther was found dead in his basement apartment on Baton Rouge Avenue. The police said he had been dead between one and two days. When Pierce failed to appear at the Trop on Monday his supervisor called his cell. Finally, after there was no answer to repeated calls, Pierce's supervisor called the police. Pierce was reliable and he never missed work. The officers found marijuana and cocaine, in small amounts in Pierce's apartment. There was no evidence of foul play or a break in. Pierce was well liked and he had no known enemies.

An autopsy is pending. It will take two to three weeks to get the toxicology reports. No test for cerberin was even considered. Pierce's closest living relative is his brother, Richard. Richard, who lives in Portland, Maine, had Luther cremated and arranged for the ashes to be sent to him. He plans to disperse them on Cadillac Mountain. Luther went there once and he liked it. As for Shea, she continues to deal blackjack and she waits. The Atlantic City detective in charge of Pierce's death investigation has placed it on low priority. He thinks it was probably drug related. Perhaps an accidental suicide or a drug induced cardiac arrhythmia? Perhaps! Perhaps!

* During the middle ages nails were recycled whenever possible, which makes sense when one thinks of the effort that went into making them.
The problem was with doors the nails were knocked right through, and the part sticking out at the back was hammered back flush with the door. These were most probably bigger than normal nails as they were studded for decorative purposes. The reason for bending the nails back, (called clinching or clenching) I could not find, other than a reference that stated this made the door stronger. Doors were made of two pieces that were nailed together.
These nails could not be recycled and were useless for any further use. Therefore dead as a doornail in carpentry terms..
From Graham's Random Rumblings

The Heat

Development houses are tombstones for the living. There they sit, all looking the same. Sure one model has a double front door and another has a side out observatory and another has a copper rooflet over a bowed out dining room window, but they are the same. Burial plots. As Harry says, buy one and die. Harry knows.

There is something about a development house. Why do they sell like fish on Fridays - maybe its the smell, maybe its the builder white walls and neutral carpeting, maybe it's because they are like fresh canvasses asking for an artist's brush or maybe it's because they have a virginal quality that calls out to the seducible buyer. Or maybe it's because they offer all new and fresh possibilities. Who knows? Harry Medellin, that's who. He knows.

Harry is a thirty-two year old sales representative for Vertical Pharmaceuticals, Inc. It "is a privately owned pharmaceutical company that supplies niche prescription pharmaceutical preparations. The Company specializes in Womens Health, Primary Care and Pediatrics". The company is located in Sayreville, NJ. Harry used to work for Pfizer, but he and his manager battled. Harry lost. Harry's best product is a hemorrhoidal preparation, Zypram. This cream contains hydrocortisone and pramoxine. Hydrocortisone is a steroid which reduces swelling and inflammation. Pramoxine is a topical anesthetic. It works by stopping nerves from sending pain signals. Harry, himself, uses Zypram. He dosen't have hemorrhoids. Harry is a long, long lover.

Harry is cool, tall, good hair and thin. Not thin skinny, but thin sinewy, thin lithe. He looks like a young Denis Leary, a Denis Leary who dosen't use stuff like drugs and alcohol. Harry plays basketball every Thursday with a Maple Shade neighborhood team called Restitution My Ass. This odd name came about when the team's six-nine center, Luther Liddy, broke down his girlfriend's front door and damaged some of her walls after he caught her doing the do with a short guy from Camden. Among other things, Luther had to make restitution to Keesha for the damages to her house and to Tyrone for damaged teeth. After that, Luther would always say, "Restitution, my ass.", whenever something he didn't like happened. And so it went.

Michelle Parla worked in a breakfast-lunch joint on Dorset Avenue in Ventnor, NJ called Annette's. You would need Google Maps to find it, if you weren't familiar with the area. Three summers back Harry and a few of the Restitutions rented a beat up summer bungalow on the inter coastal waterway. Ventnorians call it the bay, but it's about twenty feet wide near Harry's house. At that point, it is a man made canal interconnecting larger inlets and estuaries. It is possible to go by water around the island on what represents the non ocean side. The bungalow had two stories and sometimes, when the guys were lit, they jumped off the roof into the water. Annette's was a half of a block away, an easy walk. The food was decent and consistent and convenient. That's how Harry and Michelle met.

Harry ate two easy over with dry rye and browned, not burned, home fries every morning, say Sunday. On Sundays, the order changed to a long stack of sinkers with warmed maple syrup and a rasher of bacon. Two sometimes three cups of light, but non sugared coffee, followed a large orange juice. Harry was a creature of habit, if he was anything at all. Michelle, who was a quick study, would have Harry's breakfast ready for him as he entered Annette's. Michelle would see Harry walking down Edgewater Avenue and she would enter his order. She knew how to work a tip. She would usually have The Press saved for him, too. Early bird customers usually left the paper behind to Harry's advantage.

Michelle was twenty-five the year they met. She had one more semester to go at Stockton College. She was hoping to get a job in the marketing department at the Borgata Casino. Her uncle, Simon Parla, was in charge of human resources and he had pull. This was her fourth summer working Annette's. She didn't know it then, but she was making more money on an adjusted annual basis waiting tables then most of the Borgata's marketing employees. Ahh, the value of the bachelor's degree can't be underestimated. By the way, Michelle was hot.

The locals and the early birds nick named Michelle, Daisey. These older guys grew up with the Dukes of Hazzard. This TV show was aired from 1979 through 1985. It was based on the Moonrunners, a 1975 not so successful movie. The TV show featured cousins Bo and Luke Duke and their adventures in fictional Hazzard County, Georgia. They drove a 1969 customized orange Dodge Charger named the General Lee. The boys were always in some sort of entanglement with Boss Hogg, the county's scheming mayor. Daisey Duke, played by Catherine Bach, was a cousin, too. She often wore short, real short cut offs, which became known as "Daisey Dukes".



Michelle wore her shorts every bit as well as Catherine Bach. When the show was filmed Catherine Bach had to wear flesh colored tights under the cut offs. The directors feared too much would be revealed. Michelle didn't wear anything but the cut offs. Today people know the term "Daisey Dukes", since it is part of the chorus of Katy Perry's pop tune, California Gurls.

It was a summer to remember. Michelle and Harry were right as rain. It took Harry almost a week of breakfasts before he made a move. It wasn't much of a move at that, just "we're havin a party tonight, stop by if you have nothing to do." Michelle didn't know it then, but that was about as emotive as Harry could get. For him, that was a formal invitation to the prom, for her, well, she got run at all the time. It was a typical, loud bay front Saturday night. Everybody on Edgewater Avenue threw parties. By the time Michelle made an appearance, people were having jumping contests off of Harry's roof. Harry, himself, was sober. He was so delighted to see her that he nearly ran up to her, not that he was anxiously waiting, hah. He hugged her. It was a full frontal hug, not just a cheek toucher. She hugged him back. OMG. Getting that close to her, well, it was toxic in a good way. Harry was hooked. It may have been pheromones, but Michelle could make ice melt.

Concerts, swimming, beaching, gambling, food, lots of food, ice cream, roller coasters, vodka and more made up the thirteen weeks of the summer of zero five. And so it went. Harry and Michelle. He lost a job and got a job. She finished Stockton and got a job, too. He played basketball and she played marketing. The months rolled by, then a year then two. Still good, still intense. They were inseparable, in love. She frequently stayed over in his Maple Shade apartment. She hardly noticed what a small sty it was. She was blinded by the light.

As romances are wont to do, the stakes are raised from time to time. Often it's a pregnancy, unintended but dispositive. Sometimes it's the need to be together all the time, sort of like eating strawberry short cake. One piece is good, two are better and soon you want the whole cake. After two years of the best relationship two people could enjoy, it came as no surprise that the move in together stake played out. It just so happened that Harry's territory partner from his Pfizer days, Kit Seddon, was being transferred to Kansas City, Missouri. He and his wife, Jill Klanvorovitch Seddon, owned a stucco surprise in Mt. Laurel on a nice street with short immature trees. They wanted to rent it out, mostly because they didn't think life would end for them in KC. They wanted a place to come back to, a place to raise future Klanvorovitch-Seddon concepti. And so it went. Michelle and Harry set up shop on Ann Drive. It was a big step, but it was a rental, not a total commitment. Lucky thing.

It was a fine house, finer than fine, more space than either of them ever lived in. Thick pile carpets, granite tops, wooden blinds, hardwood floors, recessed lighting, tray ceilings, a great room, a master suite, well, this was no pig sty in Maple Shade. It was a threaded neighborhood, too, pools, sprinkler systems, green grass, driveways, SUV's, high class grilles, buried wires and lots of garages. Most of the homes had matching backyard sheds. where the stuff that didn't fit into the oversized garages and full basements, was stored. If one thing could be said about Tranquil Place, it would be that there was a lot of stuff there. And a lot of kids, too. Tranquil Place is where couples, who matched up, accumulated stuff and bred.

Michelle and Harry were excited to live in the stucco surprise at first. It didn't take too long to feel the hints of disquietude and incipient disappointment. Things are never quite what they are cracked up to be. Part of life. The good Tranquil Place people were at an end game. House, spouse, kids, SUV, job, green lawn and stuff were the chips. It was the night of the Ann Drive barbecue that Harry figured it out. At least twenty couples and a score of kids, along with Harry and Michelle, partied, each in his own way. By the end of the night, Harry had been propositioned by two women and maybe a man. Everyone seemed to be looking for something they didn't have, although they all had what they had bargained for. The group as whole wanted more and bigger more. This was curious to Harry, since he had never seen people awash in so much of everything. Worse yet was Harry's realization that the couples had lost what Luther Liddy would have called "the Heat". The good people of Ann Drive were playing out the string. Harry couldn't be sure if it was the stucco surprises themselves, the kids, ennui or what, but he knew a toxic, bad toxic, situation when he saw one.

That night he held Michelle and he knew he still felt the Heat. He wondered if she did? He wondered how long it would be before he didn't feel the Heat anymore? When would golf or a BMW or a hooker become more important than the Heat. He shivered, not because he was cold, but because a feeling akin to nausea welled up in him. Was Tranquil Place the future, was this the end game for him too?

The next morning, a Sunday, Michelle made him a long stack, she warmed his maple syrup and she cooked bacon. She was talking about the advantages of four bedrooms over three and how a breakfast nook added to the resale value of a property. She asked Harry if he was going to do the lawn later. She had heard the weather forecast, showers were coming. Kit had a sweet ride-on Cub Cadet in the garage.

Harry hated the lawn. Money to water it, money to fertilize it, money to cut it, phooey! Later that day, while he was riding around the rented baronial estate, Harry drove the Cadet back into the garage with the lawn only half done. He found Michelle in the great room, reading Architectural Digest. She smiled like a spouse. He told her he was going to Maple Shade to play basketball. The Restitution My Ass were having tryouts for next season. He was hoping he wasn't too old or too slow to make the team. Besides, he needed to talk with Luther. Harry missed Luther, the team and the sty.

Mostly, though, he hated what he had become and he was afraid of the future. As he drove his decade old Jeep Cherokee down Ann Drive, he flipped on his right directional signal. Cli-click, cli-click, cli-click it repeated. He looked in the rear view mirror. The young, short trees would mature. He wondered if he would? Mature means old, right?

This Old Heart of Mine

Tears streamed down his cheeks wending their way through a quarter inch scrub of salt and pepper stubble. Unlike the flood tears of a fifteen year old girl, who finds out her crush boy likes another, they're more salty, more clouded and thicker. Old lacrimal glands, yeah they still work, but not so well. The drips fall from the lower angle of his chin onto his faded green tee shirt, a shirt advertising a now defunct Pontiac dealership. Both Pontiac Motor Car and the dealer, Cathcart Motors, are dead. The green shirt evidences a few dark blotches where the eye dew has landed. It is a pitiful site. Big boys don't cry. Right.

Emotions are a funny things. They exist somewhere in the netherworld, sometimes evident and mostly not. Indeed people are taught early on to control emotions, not to show them, not to express them. To be emotional is a sign of weakness, of vulnerability. So it is. Be cool. Chill. Yeah, just look at President Obama, that's cool. Well, at least until this morning when he used the words, "whose ass to kick", while he was talking about the Gulf of Mexico oil leak. He seemingly lost control. Reynolds thinks the Obama gaffe was contrived. The "ass kick" was a response to critics Maureen Dowd and Spike Lee. They, among others, think Obama's been too detached in his handling of the oil fiasco, so it appears he's getting angry. Frank Reynolds knows Obama too well. No way he lost contol of anything. Whack.

Frank Reynolds' life is coming to a close. Maybe not tomorrow, but he is well on the downside of the mountain of his time allotment. Good days are ones when nothing bad happens. His funeral to wedding ratio is at least ten to one. Thirty years ago that ratio was reversed. Thirty years ago he was building a life, now he is slowly dismantling. He has aches, arthritis, pyorrhea and a prostate gland the size of a softball. He has ear hair. He longs to have some pimples, some acne. Funny thing, he would love to go and buy Clearasil right now. Too bad.

As with most people, Frank is pretty much out of good options. Too tired and too unenthusiastic to take on anything new, he lives in the ennui only a state pension can provide. He put in thirty years and seventeen days at the maximum security, New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. He worked as a guard in the general population. He saw some weird stuff and some bad actors, but he also met lots of decent men. Frank always says that your average criminal is just an average joe with a twist. Yeah, just like a lemon.

Frank Reynolds married once, although he didn't marry the love of his life. His deceased wife, Audrey, was what you might call a good, clean woman. Good and clean were the best things you could say about her. Audrey, who liked to be called Betty, did her best, but she was no crackerjack. Frank and Betty never argued, not once during their twenty-nine year sentence. While most people would think that a record like that would be laudable, it bespoke the lack of passion that Frank and Betty dis-enjoyed. A marriage without passion is like a sundae without whipped cream, without a maraschino. No kids came of their union. Frank blamed Betty and Betty blamed Frank. Interestingly, neither ever spoke about it. Yeah, twenty-nine years of vanilla ice cream with alternating seasons of snow shoveling, planting geraniums, mowing the weeds and raking the leaves. Ho-hum. Betty died one year ago. A stroke took her. Fast. She lived only three days after it hit.

As was his custom, Frank Reynolds began this day brewing coffee in his 5 cup Mr. Coffee maker.



He has had a Mr. Coffee coffee maker since 1973. That's the year when Joe DiMaggio began his endorsement of this product. #5, for his part, drank only Sanka. Joe avoided caffeine. He had to be careful because he suffered from peptic ulcers. Back then nobody knew ulcers were caused by the bacteria, Helicobacter pylori. Geez, if Joe were alive today he could be cured of ulcers with antibiotics. Frank drinks all five cups of high octane coffee, every morning. He reads the tabloid Trentonian. He loves this paper. General News on the front page and on the back page, Sports. And the Page Six girl. Perfect.

The Trentonian on this Tuesday morning is the cause of Frank's waterworks. To begin with, the Page Six girl so resembled Kathy Mullen that when Frank looked at the photograph he dropped his coffee cup into his lap. Luckily it was warm and not hot. Brittany Smithson, the girl in the picture, is described as being twenty-two and fun loving. She adores the beach and she works for the Pellitieri law firm. She likes biking, hiking and skiing...



None of that mattered, it was the way she looked. Brittany was a dead ringer for Kathy. Frank and Kathy were two peas in a pod back in the day. When Frank was twenty-two, he met Kathy and it was love at first sight. They dated for three years. Kathy had beautiful dark, brunette hair and eyes that made you see God. Frank wanted to marry, but Kathy, who was three years younger than Frank, wanted to see the world before settling down. As Frank looked at the picture, he could again feel his queasy stomach the day he dropped Kathy at Newark airport. She had taken a job in San Francisco. Although she promised to keep Frank in her heart, she broke that promise within two days of leaving. Frank should have known better, after all, it was California. Frank has never gotten over Kathy. As for Kathy, well...?

Page twenty-four, below the fold, "Marvin Isley Dies".

"Marvin Isley, a bassist who provided the foundation for his family’s hit-making R&B band, the Isley Brothers, died on Sunday at a hospice near his home in Chicago. He was 56."

The Isley brothers hailed from Cincinnati, Ohio. There were six bothers, Marvin was the youngest. Frank loved the Isley Brothers, but only their early stuff, from the sixties. In particular, he liked them because of the song, This Old Heart of Mine (is Weak for You). This song was a hit for them in 1966, when they recorded it for Motown on the Tamla label.



It was written by the legendary Motown trio of Edward Holland Jr., Lamont Dozier and Brian Holland. They were splendid writers, geniuses really. The wrote twenty-five #1 singles and scores and scores of other hits. Frank had other H-D-H favorites including, I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch) by the Four Tops, Baby Love by The Supremes, Nowhere to Run by Martha and the Vandellas, and You're a Wonderful One by Marvin Gaye.

Marvin Isley was not part of the group in the early years. His obituary, however, triggered the whole Isley memory. The three older bothers; O'Kelley Jr., Ronald and Reginald sang This Old Heart of Mine. Frank listened to this tune at least a thousand times in the years following Kathy's move to California. Betty sometimes would watch him smoke a cigarette and listen to the song late at night in the dark living room. The Isleys sang...

Ooh, this old heart of mine been broke a thousand times
Each time you break away I think you're gone to stay
Lonely nights that come, memories that flow
Bringing you back again, hurting me more and more

Maybe it's my mistake to show this love I feel inside
'Cause each day that passes by,
You've got me never knowin' if I'm comin' or goin' but I

I love you-ou-ou, yes I do
This old heart (ooh) darlin' is weak for you
I love you-ou-ou, yes I do

These old arms of mine miss having you around
Make these tears inside start falling down
Always with half a kiss, you remind me of what I miss
Though I try to control myself
Like a fool I start grinnin' 'cause my head starts spinnin' 'cause I

I love you-ou-ou, yes I do
This old heart (ooh) darlin' is weak for you
I love you-ou-ou, yes I do

I try hard to hide my hurt inside
This old heart of mine always keeps me cryin'
The way you're treatin' me leaves me incomplete
You're here for the day, gone for the week

But if you leave me a hundred times
A hundred times I'll take you back
I'm yours whenever you want me
I'm not too proud to shout it, tell the world about it 'cause I

I love you-ou-ou
This old heart (this old heart) is weak for you
I love you-ou-ou
This old heart (this old heart) is weak for you
I love you-ou-ou
This old heart (this old heart) is weak for you

A perfect emotional storm took Frank Reynolds. A picture of a girl who looked like a another girl and an obituary of a brother of a trio of singers did it. The emotions of unrequited love erupted out of a sixty-five year old man. It took a long time. Once the tears dry, Frank will sit gulping the fifth cup of Joe's joe. The realization of it all will become clear. He has lived an empty life, he has held on to an empty dream, he is an empty man. He has two choices. Play out the emptiness or make something out of what he has left. He gets up to rummage through his old records. He finds his old 45 and he carefully places it on an antique, but venerable player. Ronald Isley sings...Ooh, this old heart of mine been broke a thousand times...