Endnotes (One Last Thing...)

There's an old bit of cowboy wisdom that goes like this:

"Never mistake a clear view for a short distance."

Looking off into that horizon, I find myself in the fortunate position where the places I'm needed and the places I want to be are the same. And when that happens? Man, you just go.

But before I set out on that long journey, there's this one last thing. I made something for you.

I made you a mix CD.

Seriously.

This space has been different things at different times, but it's always had a musical soul. Over that last five and a half years I've quoted, referenced and embedded more songs than you can shake a BBQ sandwich at, and so I went ahead and burned a bunch of them onto a couple of CDs for you. If you'd like a copy, send a separate message to throwinghammers[at]gmail[dot]com with your mailing address, and I'll get your copies out pronto.

This offer is open all readers, even the quiet ones who commented sparingly or not at all. If you've swung by this space with any regularity and have enjoyed what you've found, I'd be happy to send the Throwing Hammers double-CD soundtrack your way. (To make the post office trips a little more manageable, I took the liberty of sending out a batch this morning to some folks whose addresses I already had. Your copies should arrive shortly.)

The music is all over the map, and while I expect y'all to have different favorites, I'm confident you'll deem a few tracks to be iPod-worthy. Maybe more than a few. Depends on your taste I guess.

"What does your blog sound like?" It might seem odd to answer a question that nobody ever asked, but as I play this music in the background I can't help but think that it evokes and summarizes what we did here in a way that words never could. Longtime readers may recall where some of songs come from, but my hope is that down the road, after you've said, "Yup, that sounds like Hammer alright," the music starts to take on a life of its own.

We've had a remarkably good run, but after all this time I think the blog has finally arrived at a natural conclusion and deserves to be set free. The parts that linger in my mind will become something else, and for some of y'all, you might still hear its echoes in lyrics and chords.

This is the final post of Throwing Hammers. Farewell, my friends, and take care.

I wish y'all way more than luck.

The Edge of Awake

Strange electricity in the sky tonight. Crack the window to let a little seep in. Too early for bed though, so I flop out on the couch to rest my eyes. Stereo and lights down low, just above the threshold of perception. Mind wandering without tether or destination, thoughts drifting between the immediate and the abstract. Eyelids heavy, breathing slowed, but still awake. Still awake. Still...

A soft voice singing gently, but not from the stereo.

Go to sleep little baby
Go to sleep little baby
You and me and the devil makes three
Don't need no other lovin' baby

If not... then where...? A struggle to shake off the fatigue and sit back up. Damn, it got cold in here - I didn't open the window that much. I swing my arm out and it brushes across... leaves? Snow?

I wake with a jolt in cold night air. Sitting up slowly, I find myself on a wooded hillside overlooking low, sturdy buildings. A thin blanket of ice blue moonlight illuminates everything in sight, including the jacket and boots I don't remember putting on.



"Man, this is living. Brown-bagging it on the coast of northern Norway. If this isn't the coldest place on Earth I don't know what is," said the familiar voice of my Blog Self. "Here," he said, handing me a bottle and opener. "Looks like you could use one of these."

"Thanks," I replied, cracking off the top.

"You've come far, pilgrim."

I shook my head and laughed. Fatigue, finality and that really old joke kicked in, and I laughed again, louder, cascading. The laugh of release.

"Feels like far," I replied. "You know, it took me a while, but I think I know who you are. What you are. You're not my Blog Self at all, are you?"

"Getting warmer," he said.

"A trickster, but no ordinary one."

"Getting warmer," he said.

"A voice from the collective unconscious. A messenger from the timeless narrative. A whisper from all stories from all time. The ones that feel like mine but aren't really. All the ones I've lived, all the ones I'm going to."

For a long time he said nothing, staring silently into the sky as if waiting for... what? An answer of some kind? Approval? After a while his features softened, and with a smile and slow nod he said, "Close enough. You lost your bearings for a while there, but all you needed was a little nudge. You ready for what comes next?"

"I think so. Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Good. A lot of people are counting on you."

He didn't have to name names. I saw all their faces in half an instant, and I remembered. I remembered...

"Well cowboy, I need to get going," he said. "I might be timeless, but it doesn't mean I'm not busy. Why don't you stick around for a bit, take a walk through town? Been a while. Nice night too. Hell of a moon up there."

Surveying the town below, I felt a spark of memory. Something about it... something...

"Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you..."

Too late - he had already vanished. But I think I knew the answer anyway.

I walked down the slope and into the edge of town. People still milling through the streets, walking in and out of the restaurants, talking loudly and laughing heartily. Smiling and nodding when we made eye contact, as if to ask, "Where ya been?"

I was... away. But now... now...

A flood of images and moments. A tumble of buried memories suddenly triggered loose. Proust was right:

"When from a long distant past nothing persists, after the people are dead, after things are broken and scattered, still alone, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long, long time like souls, ready to remind us, waiting, hoping for their moment amid the ruins of all the rest, and bear unfaltering in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence the vast structure of recollection."

A few blocks down the street I come to an outdoor skating rink and rest my elbows on the railing, to regain my balance as much as anything else. Still a handful of people on the ice, slowly gliding clockwise. I stare back up at the stars and remember a night sky from forever ago. One by the ocean. A conversation.

Getting harder to reopen my eyes every time I close them. So tired.

I could just curl up right here and...

A flicker of motion behind me, a tug on my sleeve, and that voice...

"Martello!"

Just behind my left shoulder, smiling wide and bundled in a heavy coat stood Fiorella. I scooped her up and she laughed that laugh of hers.

"Che Cavolo! Martello, where are we?"

"Norway, I think."

"Norway? Daverro? He said I would meet you tonight, but I did not think it would be in Norway."

"Who?"

"The man who looks like you but is not you."

My jaw dropped. I didn't even know where to begin.

"Martello, I wish to skate? Can you skate?"

"Yes, I skate very well."

"You will need to keep up, Martello. No mosey."

"No mosey."

Five minutes later and we're on the ice, turning in wide circles with the crowd and laughing our heads off. After a time I begin to ask the question...

"Fiorella, that man who looks like me but is not me..."

She cuts me off by reaching over and putting a finger across my lips. "Shhhhhh! Martello, you have a very bad habit of talking when you should be doing other things. Take my hand and skate."

This is where a smart man shuts his mouth and does as he's told. Tonight I am a smart man, and we skate for what feel like an hour or so, but who knows?

She says her legs are tired and she wants to sit a while. We find a bench nearby and as she curls into my right shoulder, the heavy veil of sleep that I've been fighting off all night starts to settle in again. I don't know how much longer... I don't know...

"Martello, you look very tired."

"I don't want to fall asleep. Or wake up. I just want to stay here as long as I can."

"But Martello, we cannot stay here. We must go. You must go."

"Says who?"

"Says that man."

"The one who looks like me but is not me?"

"Si."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He told me to remind you of your promise. Do you remember your promise, Martello?"

Heavy tumblers fell into place in an instant. "Yes," I said. "I remember my promise."

Everything starts to spin a little, and as my eyes close I know that I won't be able to open them again. Not tonight. Whatever "this" is, it's fading fast.

"Martello, do not forget your promise."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"Promise not to forget... my promise?"

"Si."

"Okay," I say with an exhausted laugh. "I promise."

As she leaned in close and whispered one last thing, something meant only for me, I felt gravity disappear. The last tumbler clicking into place. All this time, all this time...

Still whispering, she began to sing.

Go to sleep little baby
Go to sleep little baby
You and me and the devil makes three
Don't need no other lovin' baby

Indeterminable time passes and I wake slowly. Something a little different about the morning light today. I leave the stereo off and brew a pot of coffee in silence. Too many cobwebs to shake loose.

I start to pack a bag. I have no idea why, but I pack a bag.

The phone rings loudly, jolting me out of my trance. A famliar voice and an old script that I never get tired of.

"I'm on my way," I say. "I'm heading out the door now. I just have this one last thing to take care of. One last thing."

One last thing...

Hammer's Big Damn List of Acknowledgements (Because If I Don't Do This Now...)

The problem with writing an all-encompassing post thanking the people who, in their own way, influenced so much of what I've done with this space over the years is that there are just so damn many of them.

A task bordering on the impossible, but I'll give it a shot anyway.

Most of you had your own blogs at one time or another, or still do. I never commented as much as I should have, often gliding silently through your words in much the same way Damiel and Cassiel wandered the city streets in Der Himmel über Berlin. Rest assured, however, that your perspectives and insights lingered in my headspace long after I shut down the computer. We all have our moments, but I swear, some of you that knocked it out of the park damn near every time. And so with a nod to Ken Hicks...

This is a song for all the good travellers
Who passed through my life as they moved along
The ramblers, the thinkers, the just-one-more drinkers
Each took the time to sing me a song

...I raise a glass to all the writers, readers, friends and accidental muses. If you're surprised to see your name here, see the earlier remark re: "never commented as much as I should have."

These people include:

A-Train, Adam, Ah Bugger, Allyn, always write, Average Jane, Bettyjoan, the Bertucci's crew, Between Love & Like, Brando, all those long-retired bloggers from the 04-06 era whose names I've forgotten, my brother and his family, caitlindwarf, charlotte harris, Circle V, Clark & Sandy & co., all my grad school classmates (but especially Kim, Gerald, Heather, Jeff, Andy, Nick and Jen), the COD irregulars, Colin, Countersignature, Creative DC, DC Cookie, DC Pussycat Doll, The DC Universe, Dealing In Subterfuges, Disaffected Scaner Jockey, El Guapo, emmyjean, all my past (and current) employees - even the ones I wanted to throw through a plate glass window, Fiorella, FreckledK, Gilahi Blog, Global Chameleon, hey pretty, Howie and Sarah P. (not the AK one), Huckleberry, Hunter-san, I-66, Infinite Connections, Intangible Arts, JJ, J-No (a.k.a. Peaches), JB (both of them), Jimmy, Joelogon, Kathy, Kathryn, Kmax Trax, the B-Burg Kevins, Lacochran, Lexa, Linz, Michelle A., Mom & Dad, Momentary Academic, Monica, Noodle, Not a Girl Not Yet a Wino, Pie Pants, Rachel, everyone from Rick James Stadium (my fantasy football league), RoarSavage, Rock Creek Rambler, Sean C., Simon, Son of Clown Ops, Sethro, Sour N Sweet, Sparkles, Susan P., Taylor in Maine, all the kids from the tee-ball teams I coached, Tiaras Optional, Tina, T-Ro and the poker night gang, the three or four people I'm sure I meant to include but spaced out on when I wrote this, my ultimate frisbee teammates and opponents (even the ones I fouled and cussed out), Velvet in Dupont, Wanderings, Was It For This?, Wendy H., what? the curtains?, Willow, WonL, WUVT (without which, well, you'll see), and you - yes YOU!

Somewhere along the line, the blogroll off to the right evolved into a kind of Greek chorus. One that sets the bar high, abides no slack, and takes pride in offering insight, encouragement, counterpoint, cultural references, punchlines and general comeuppances in equal measure. They can get a little rowdy from time to time and have been known to hurl beer cans from the balcony when sufficiently agitated, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It would have been a simple matter to include their names in the list above, but they don't get off that easy.

Paul of Adventurepan: For Photoshop and email hilarity (including photos that not even *I* would repost), many beers, calling bullshit, unfiltered feedback, reminding me to throw a punch once in a while, picking up on every Rush reference I ever made, and "the project."

Reya of After the Gold Puppy: For catch-up sessions, conversations wide and deep, unexpected gifts, forgiving my long absences, and for opening many doors even though I didn't always walk through them. When I first started reading her old blog, I used to think to myself, "What's that crazy hippie lady on about today?" Now look at us. Too funny.

Marci of Baby Banana: For Vikings games, beers, birthday parties, and oh-my-God that accent.

Suicide Blond of Blonder Than You: For repartee, drinks and dinners, passed notes, car keys, hoodoo, art & music, and understanding that the thing thing about "our people" is that what isn't said often counts as much as what is. (But not for stealing my safe word, which is "butterscotch.")

Martin of Boztopia: For really "getting it" when it comes to personal blogging in an arena where everything's for sale, ethuisiasm, skepticism, and powerful nerd-fu. (But not for incessantly threatening to cut me.)

Miss Bird of Brunch Bird: For being a good sport about my stubborn refusal to change her blog name, superlative theme parties, quick-witted comebacks, and being the sort of person I would have loved to sit in the back row with in class.

Binky of Bunk In the West: For serving as a sounding board, advisor, taskmaster, music guru, and one of the best friends a man could have for going on two decades.

KOB of DC Blogs: For creating and sustaining a singularly amazing nexus of dialogue that connected so many people who would have never found each other otherwise, and for allowing me to take it out fo a spin once in a while.

Matt of (well, he retired, but he gets listed here anyway.): For being the longest-tenured and most-Photoshopped member of the balcony hecklers, calling bullshit on all my fuzzy physics, serving as the Jerome to my inner Morris Day, and more beers and games of pool than I can remember. Speaking of which, we're long overdue.

Freewheel of Freewheeling Spirit: For being a champion of slower-paced living in an absurdly frenetic city, beer and bike reviews, and sharing sublime moments of family hilarity.

NanU of Have Genes Will Travel: For tales and pictures from faraway lands, and for reminding us that creative writing and hard science are not mutially exclusive.

Red of The Life of Red: For throwing punches and punchlines with equal aplomb, joining in on the Photoshop fun, sharing pints, and introducing me to Scythian.

Ryane of Me, My Thoughts & I: For posts that always kinda just nailed it, never letting go of her inner Beavis and Butthead, and showing us how tough choices can pay off.

David of Notsolinear: For reminding me to pay attention to craft (including really tight dialogue), but not for drinkin' mah beer. I shall have my vengeance, good sir. Oh yes.

Phil of Playaz Ball: For blog wars, intermingled story arcs, catching all the 70's cultural references, a knack for writing the perfect comment to end a post, and reminding me that there really are no rules to this at all. If it wasn't for Phil, I probably would have ended this blog in 2005 or 2006. Next time I'm in Atlanta, my man, and you ain't buyin'.

Ronda of Ronda's Wonderland: For an uncanny ability to follow where I was going despite my infrequent use of turn signals, and taking some angles that forced me (in a good way) to rethink what I was trying to get at in the first place.

Chris of St. Louis Patina: For hilarious boozing sessions on both sides of the Atlantic, the epic NYC road trip, stellar photography, and being the best freelance art & architecture tourguide this side of Berlin (and probably a little beyond.)

Dagny Taggart of Seeking John Galt: For movie quotes, teaching me how to paint in murk, being a great conversationalist, reminding me that in some circles life *does* unfold prior to 8:30 a.m., and understanding the value of unusual oracles.

Cube of Washington Cube: For adding a little mystery and intrigue to the DC blogging zeitgeist (and being the glue that connects all us old-timers), balancing the scholarly and the silly, general naughtiness and mischief, sending the best hand-made cards I've ever received, and getting on my case when I let too much dust build up around here.

Rob of We Don't Count Visits to Your Own Blog: For his work on the best group blog I've ever read (I'd share the link, but it's long gone now), recommendations on everything from sci-fi to fonts to country music, and being able to hit that perfect level of just-cranky-enough that I've never been able to pull off in my own writing.

The end. There is no X, Y or Z.

Whew.

Like I said, there are just so damn many of you.

From a karmic standpoint, this is easily filed under "good problems to have" and is a testament to how integral your voices have been to this blog's improbably long run. Because of y'all, this little experiment became something much larger than it was ever intended to be. I couldn't have done it without you - I absolutely couldn't.

I'm not just grateful for your contributions, I'm humbled by them. Truly humbled.

I owe you all a beer.

This could get expensive...

Unmellow Yellow

Very few people can pull off gold lamé. Fortunately for me (and my date, the lovely Miss Kate Beckinsale), I am one of them.



We're having a superlative time over here at the Second Annual Willow Manor Ball, having just arrived via the private luxury jet that Richard Branson lost to me in a recent poker game. (I cracked his aces with a set of kings and took him to the proverbial cleaners. Sorry, Mr. Moneybags, but I know when I've got a monster hand, and no self-important gasbag pom is gonna push me off it no matter how much you raise the pot.)

The party is just getting started over here, so drop what you're doing, pack a bag and get moving. For a most unreasonable fee, I have secured the services of the Playaz Jet for your transportation needs. I am of course sticking Mr. Branson with the bill. He was hoping to get away with simply offering y'all Virgin Atlantic standby vouchers, but neither I nor Kate would hear of it.

Unfiltered Unleaded

I didn't set out to take a month off, it just kinda happened. Responsibilities, a minor ruckus or two, a little bit of time on crutches, some side projects, and general weird stuff.

All that and the travel. Endless miles of travel.

I've been on the road these last few days, combining contemporary tasks with old promises while behind the the wheel of an absurdly large and powerful SUV that somebody else gets to pay for. It rolls like a dream, but I tell ya, it gets a little squirrelly once you hit 100 mph (which, considering we've got well over 300 horsepower under the hood, ain't hard at all.)

The mountains call - they always do - and when I'm gone too long they get a little insistent. But they always take me back. And when I walk through those old doors, it's never "What are you doing here?" It's "Where have you been?"

Which isn't a real question of course. It's affirmation, forgiveness and grace all rolled into one.

Knowing all the roads by heart. Heavy twang rattling the stereo. A languid dinner with my "other" family and drinking the hard stuff until 2:00 in the morning on a weeknight.

I am, as always, stunned by how relaxed and "at home" I feel here. Natural, unforced and unaffected. I've been asked a million questions, but not a one of them was "What do you do?"

Man, these hills are full of ghosts. Saw all the ones I planned to and a couple I didn't. One tapped me right on the shoulder as I passed a wall of old photos, and in an instant I'm transported to a Sunday afternoon in Boston where I'm going through my address book letter by letter and making the saddest phone call you can make.

Later that afternoon as I drive deeper into the hills, well beyond the interstates and avenues of "just passin' through," I laugh to myself as I remember something Fiorella said. "Martello, you get me so lost. You give directions like a country person."

Street names and precise distances aren't my thing - I'm a landmark guy. The guy who tells you, "Go down the road a ways, but not too far. When you see the Exxon station on the left - the one with the closed down cafe next to it, you're getting close. You'll come to an intersection with a store on the left that sells birdbaths and fireworks, turn right there. Go down just a little bit, and when you come to the furniture outlet on the right, turn left onto the gravel road across from it that goes up a really big hill."

I've never used a GPS and will continue hold out as long as I can. I want to pay attention to what's around me, not to a tiny computer on my dashboard. Remember the turns. Remember the land. You might find yourself here again someday - might be useful to know how to get around.

Which is why I know how to get to this one grassy spot by memory.

There's a marker there finally. Small and unassuming, right where I was always thought it was supposed to be. I sit beside it and gaze into the valley below until the sun dips below the treeline. Old hardwoods sway in an insistent wind. Whispered answers to silent questions.

Hundreds of miles before sleep. More landmarks along the way, including the old family farm outside of Bedford. The one my grandmother grew up in before running off to get married when she was 15. I decide on a different route just for the hell of it, one I haven't gone in more years than I can recall, and I still nail every turn by memory.

The ghosts flood my brain to the point I'm wondering if karma set me up with this giant Chevy just so I'd have enough room to haul them all. Is this music okay? Want me to turn the heat up a little?

I pass through that desolate section of road where my brother and I almost bought it. He swore at the time he didn't fall asleep at the wheel, but years later he admitted that's exactly what happened. I was the one who was supposed to drive that night, but I was passed drunk out in the passenger seat.

"You look tired," they say when I finally arrive. "I am. Long day."

They start talking to me as soon as I set my bags down, but I'm so fried that I can neither process nor construct sentences.

"I'm sorry - I just need to sleep for a while. I'll be a better conversationalist tomorrow."

Promises, tasks and miles. Tomorrow will be the longest day yet, and here I am typing at y'all. If it was earlier in the night and I was back in DC, I'd probably edit the bejesus out of this, maybe even delete it outright, but nah. Let it ride.

I sleep like a sunken stone out here and always have. Can't ever seem to replicate it in DC though. I always blame it on the traffic, but it's probably something else.

Sleep like that is a hard thing to deny though. Think I'll turn in and get some.

G'night...

Tools for Tots

The past few days have seen a side project become THE project and another totally unrelated idea become elevated to the level of full-fledged side project. I've been writing with pens, drawing with pencils, and listening more country music than anyone born north of Fredericksburg could ever hope to withstand.

Yesterday I pulled the kitchen table straight into the middle of the living room and turned it into a poor man's drafting table. It looks weird sitting there like that, not to mention vaguely ghetto, but I like the arrangement for now. Maybe for a long now. The editors of all those interior design magazines can form a great big single-file line, pucker right up, and kiss my ass.

I was thinking about open spaces and the tools we use to shape them, and the next thing I knew 30 years disappeared. Ker-BLAM!

I am no longer in the here and now. I am in the there and then. (And so there's no confusion, I'm the tall one who doesn't have the persistent "can't stop sticking his grubby little hand into his slobber-stained mouth" problem.)

We live in a small house and money is tight. We have toys but not as many as the other kids. But there are pencils, and there is paper. An endless supply of paper. Fancy drawing paper, regular paper, scrap paper, and "improvised paper."

My all-time favorite example of the latter is a huge stack of leftover labor union campaign posters my dad brings home one time. My brother and I look at him like he's gone clean out of his big-collared, bell-bottomed mind, but he just smiles and flips the top one over to reveal a vast expanse of unglossy blank white cardstock.

"Draw on this side," he says.

Jesus H. Christ in a chicken basket! The mother lode! YESSSS!!!!

Mom's the artist though. She's the one who teaches us how to use "real" drawing pencils. Instructs us on shading. Reveals the magic of "tracing paper" eons before the invention of CTRL-C. And perhaps most important of all, tells us to sketch whatever we feel like. Gives two words of instruction and steps back. The words are "draw something."

Dad's workshop is in the far corner of the back yard. We fire up the wood stove in the winter and fling open all the doors and windows in the summer. My brother and I plead incessantly for the latest toys to no avail, but our own woodworking tools are provided without question. Keeps us from hogging (and breaking) his, some of which were handed down by my great-grandfather.

His instruction is more exacting, but this is understandable considering the fact that blades and electricity are involved. In the final stage, however, he takes a cue from Mom, points to the massive stack of scrap lumber, says two words and steps back. The words are "build something."

The old music is playing. Is it from the AM radio or my iTunes. My what? What the hell are iTunes? Wait a minute, I'm not a little kid, I'm a BIG kid. I'm...

Ker-BLAM! Back in the here and now.

Over a recent dinner, my parents said that I was an easy kid to keep track of because of my tendency to get wrapped up in projects for hours at a time. "How'd you know I didn't just quit and walk off somewhere?" I asked. "Because you'd always stick your tongue out the side of your mouth and hum when you were really into what you were doing. You'd lay on the floor like that for hours and we could hear you from the other room."

I'm remembering that conversation now because I'm wondering how in the hell I just lost three days to a "side project" that I haven't even finished yet. One whose final form is as much a mystery to me as anyone else.

But then I remember all the pencils and paper, all the tools and lumber, and I do what any well-adjusted, independent and accountable adult would do.

I blame it all on my parents.



* Editor's Note: And before anybody gets to thinking that I'm getting all snooty and Dead Poety on y'all, I'll have you know that I was drinking beer and listening to Waylon the entire time I wrote this, and not in some wussy-ass ironic hipster way either, so there.

Tristamente tutto deve finire (Or: "Put you hands on the wheel, let the golden age begin.")

Considering how fast and loose we've played with "reality" in this space over the years, I wasn't surprised when a few people started asking, "Is Fiorella real?" I understand where it comes from, but it's still hilarious to me to even write it. I think of the countless moments I never told y'all about, and I just shake my head and laugh.

Want to know a secret? She's funnier than I am. I like to think I'm pretty funny, but Fiorella? Damn...

I'm absolutely cracking up now just thinking about the time I took her to the BBQ place, the time she brandished a chef's knife and kicked me out of my own kitchen, our ridiculous arguments about brown flip-flops, that little dance she does when she's excited about something, the time that...

Well, if you've been around the block a time or two, y'all know how it goes.

Fiorella is back home now. She was never supposed to stay forever, just for a time. She has a future that awaits her and I have one that awaits me. And it would be a hell of a thing if those futures were the same, but they're not.

I don't believe in fate or cosmic determinism, but I do believe that our lives are shaped in part by an incomprehensibly large variety of external forces and influences. And sometimes those forces are people, and sometimes those people give us a good nudge.

I'm not sure how to explain them succinctly so I won't even try, but during our time together she managed to help me see a couple things that were just sitting there all along. What kind of things? Big life things. Pointed them out like constellations. "You see there?" Where? "There." I don't see... [she grabs my hand and points] "There!" Oh! Yeah! Well I'll be damned...

Very early on, Fiorella told me that no matter what happened with us, she thought I came back into her life at the perfect moment and that she'd always be grateful for this improbable window of time. My sentiments were (and still are) the same.

Looking back now, I know that I'm grateful not just for the memories, I'm also grateful for "the nudge."

Is Fiorella real?


Oh yes, very much so. And trust me on this:

She may be small, but she packs a wallop.

Quanto tempo puo durare? Quanto notti da sognare? (Or: "As long as there's a honky tonk, she'll never settle down.")

Underneath all the urban Italian, Fiorella's got a little bit of cowgirl in her.

Talk about your kryptonite...

It's comical just how tiny her boots look when she sets them over by the door next to my big black shitkickers, but they're honest-to-God cowboy boots all the same. Says she got them in Arizona and wouldn't mind living there. "It is very pretty in Arizona," she says, "and I could wear my boots all day there."

"You can wear your boots all day anywhere," I reply.

"But Martello, this is not Arizona. This is DC. Just because you can wear your boots all the time, it does not mean you should wear your boots all the time," she counters.

Oh man, here we go again. Remember the Safeway story? Anyway, I couldn't disagree more, but I just raise an eyebrow and smirk ever-so-slightly. Flash forward to...

Lazy summer afternoon and we're taking a long drive in the pickup truck, following the Potomac River out of DC and into Maryland. Windows down, taking turns with the stereo, no particular destination in mind and no particular hurry to get there. Along the way there are a couple decent places to grab a drink, and as I try to decide which one I'm in the mood for she says, "Martello, what is this music you are playing?"

"It's Hüsker Dü."

"It is very loud."

"Yes, Hüsker Dü is very loud, but this is a great summer song, and it's got this quiet part in the middle, and..."

"Martello, can we make this music go away?"

"Okay, but do you like any rock music?"

"Si. I like Elvis very much."

"Elvis? Davvero?"

"Si. Elvis is... Martello, did you just say davvero?"

"Si," I answer with a laugh.

"Martello, you are learning Italian! Che bello!"

"You know, Dwight Yoakam did a really good cover of an Elvis song. I have it on my iPod - do you wanna hear it?"

"Who is Dwight Yoakam?"

"You don't know?!"

"No. Why should I know?"

"If you're gonna ride around in a pickup truck in the summer with the windows down and plunk your boots on the dashboard like that, Dwight Yoakam is required listening. Let me play his Elvis cover for you."

Dwight Yoakam - Suspicious Minds

A few seconds into it, she turns her head to me, eyes wide. "Martello, I know this song!"

I laugh and start singing along. A couple verses later she joins in.

Right then and there I know I'm going to remember this moment for a long, long time. My usual memory tricks aren't going to work while I'm behind the wheel, but I still try to take in as much sensory information as I can while keeping the truck on the road. The way the light stumbles through the tree branches and drips through the windshield. The electric smile on her face as she sings along. That skirt she's wearing. The way she wedges her boots into the corner of the passenger window and leans back into my shoulder, dark chestnut hair spilling into my lap. All this and more. It was almost enough to make me forget about that return ticket sitting in her bag back at the apartment. Almost.

I'm gonna miss that little firecracker.

Tra il dire e il fare, c'è di mezzo il mare (Or: Why I agreed to - okay proposed - this arrangement in the first place.)

A lot of it came down to the simple fact that I got tired of telling people I care about to just "hang in there."

Jobs, health and family. Relationships, kids and general karmic beatdowns. You name it, it's happening. To everybody.

Seems all I do these days is tell people to "hang in there." Which works for a while until you notice just how frequently you catch yourself saying it, and then you start wondering if you aren't some kind of colossal fraud who simply knows how to polish faux sympathy to a high gloss. You start thinking that instead of simply offering perfunctory words of encouragement, maybe you should start offering some real, actual, tangible help.

Fiorella was going through some rough stuff, so when a block of free time fell her way I made a simple offer: Come to DC and stay as long as you want to. No expectations other than to use the time to rest and recharge.

She needed a change of scenery and some time to unwind, and because I was in a position to offer those things, I did. She asked if I was serious, I said I wouldn't have put it out there if I wasn't, and so she thought about it a couple days and said yes.

I'm not some billionaire who can simply throw money at her problems, and I can't pull a fantastic new job out of the air for her, but I placed the things I could offer on the table, and it turns out those were the things that were needed.

A lot of it also had to do with the "unofficial list of people in my life who, despite time and/or distance, immediately and unconditionally get anything they ask of me." It's a diverse list of names, and although it's not terribly long, Fiorella is on it.

It's a weird list and I've gotten my fair share of crap about it over the years, but the efforts and sacrifices I'm prepared to make for people have very little to do with frequency of interaction and much more to do with a variety of intangible factors. Most of the folks close to me understand this but some don't, and sometimes the folks who don't get a little vocal about it. The dust eventually settles though.

So yeah, it mostly had to do with those two things. Except that there's an underlying third thing, and I'd be lying if I told you it didn't influence my decision to extend the offer, and her decision to accept it.

Fiorella and I are curious about "us."

I have this old picture of the two of us from forever ago, and it cracks me up to this day because I can still halfway-decently remember the night it was taken in a distant city and how it was one of those goofy, unscripted evenings where everything is hilarious and perfect. "You two are too cute," said the person behind the camera, "Let me take a picture of you." So we obliged, and I look it now and I think, "Damn, we look so... young. And she's so... short."

So I guess the million dollar question is how are "we" doing?

Wanna see something cool? Watch me totally dodge that one all John Woo style. Sidestep, spin, flying, twirling, ker-whoosh!

Maybe later. Sorry.

What I didn't anticipate was the all the verbalized introspection. Fiorella remembers who I was, and now as she spends time with who I am, she says she's been struck by some significant changes she's noticed between the two. (90-odd percent of which are apparently for the better, so I have that going for me, which is nice.) Stands to reason I guess. We slipped out of each other's lives for almost a decade, reconnected on a whim, and now she's here.

It's a daily barrage of questions. How did you come to that realization? Why is this thing important to you? Why is this thing not? Where did all this calm come from? When did you become so much better at listening? Why do you still walk so fucking slow?

Stuff like that.

We all have our personal journeys - you have yours and I have mine. But we undertake them quietly and inwardly, without voiceovers or press conferences. I remember who I was and have a good handle on who I am, but when it comes to how, specifically, did I get from there to here...

Hell, I don't know. I just kinda did it. There were milestones and memorable moments to be sure, but until now I haven't had to string them together into a coherent verbal narrative quite like this one. It's not the same thing as telling your backstory to a stranger. Fiorella's no stranger, and not only does she know a lot of the backstory, she had a starring role in a few episodes of it.

So I'm telling my story, filling in the gaps, and most of the time it goes the way I figure.

But sometimes I find myself connecting old dots in new ways and...

And I...

pause for just... a minute...

Well damn...

I shake my head and laugh a little.

"Martello, what is wrong? Why did you stop?"

"Oh, it's fine. I was just thinking about your question, and the way you asked it made me think about it in a way I hadn't considered before."

The room tilts a bit...

I'm drifting back to that thought...

Well I'll be damned. This whole time... maybe all along...

Maybe...

"Martello!"

"Huh? What? Sorry."

"Oh God! It is not just your feet that mosey - your brain does it too!"

Busted. Utterly busted. How much Elton Fucking John am I going to have to listen to to make up for that?

Porca miseria!

Meglio tardi che mai (Or: I swear if she walked any faster, she'd set off the goddamn speed cameras.)

Alright, this one I didn't see coming, but as the following snippets of actual conversation suggest, it appears that walking speed is a compatibility measure right up there with dinner music and whether or not it's ever acceptable to drink milk or orange juice straight out of the container.

On relative velocity:

[during an afternoon stroll on M Street.]

"Avanti! Oh Martello, why can you not keep up?"

"Sorry, I'm just enjoying the moment. Taking it all in. Am I walking too slow again?"

"Martello, you do not walk slow, you... you mosey."

"Mosey?"

"Si. Mosey."

"It's the boots, they were built to mosey."

"I need you to not mosey. I need you to keep up. I need you to make the mosey go away."

"Okay, but maybe you oughta slow down a little. Savor the moment. Switch to decaf."

"Martello, I do not drink coffee. You know this."

"Dear God... imagine if you did... hundreds of innocent people trampled to death by little elf shoes!"

[She hit me.]

"Very stylish elf shoes though."

[She hit me again and called me words in Italian that I didn't understand. They didn't sound very nice though.]

On why I can't ever win:

[from my office phone, shortly after arriving at work]

"Hey Fiorella, check this out. I was walking to work this morning, and I passed somebody on the sidewalk. Totally passed them. And they weren't old or on crutches or anything!"

"I do not believe you."

"Seriously, there was this girl. She was wearing tennis shoes, looked athletic, and I totally passed her."

"Martello, do not lie. It is not sexy when you lie."

"But I..."

"Martello..."

[long pause]

"What do you want to do for dinner tonight?"

On the application of my walking speed to theoretical physics:

[dinner at the apartment after a long and tiring day]

"Martello, I do not understand why you walk so slowly. I watch people in DC walk, and they walk quickly and with purpose. But you... you..."

"I know, I mosey."

"Si."

"You got me all wrong though. You see, this is all part of a larger picture. I'm trying to achieve instantaneous teleportation, and so I figure if I walk slowly enough, I just might pull it off."

And that's when she completely and utterly lost it. Streaming tears of laughter, hyperventilation, runny nose, the works.

Oh yes, and red wine, straight through her nose.

Ti sta bene, my dear. Told you I'd get even.

Nelle botti piccine ci sta il vino buono (Or: Dance like no one's watching, but no spinning when you're using the chef's knife)

Fiorella stood in front of my music collection (a.k.a. the wall of sound) and made a face that was half-pout, half perplexed.

"Martello, why do I not know any of these bands?" she asked.

"Aw c'mon, you know some of them."

"Only a few. I have never heard of most of this."

Ah... "this."

I've spent the last 18 years building this, and despite the technological breakthroughts that have resulted in unprecendented amounts of music being just one click away, I still find something ritualistically comforting in pulling out a single CD, looking over the cover art - maybe even skimming the liner notes, and sliding it into the stereo.

Click. Whirrr. Volume knob. POW!

The practical compromises of sharing a space have all come easily to us with one notable exception: the music.

Ambient, most jazz, hard rock, metal, punk? Pretty much anything with heavy guitar? Nope. She generally lasts about eight minutes, and then she says, "Martello, can we make this music go away?"

I laugh ('cuz she still cracks me up with the way she says that) and either switch to something more agreeable or plug in her iPod and let her DJ for a while.

Which is fine, except that I've about hit my breaking point with the Elton Fucking John. (And not old stuff like this, which I have an affinity for. It's the newer stuff. Live. Arrrggghhh!!!) And while I'm learning a lot about opera, it's not really what I want to blast out of the window after I get home from a particularly ridiculous day at work.

We've been playing a lot of Pink Martini around the place, especially at dinner time. It's one of her favorite bands and one that somehow escaped my radar. After the food has been placed on the table and the wine's been poured, she puts all her Pink Martini songs on shuffle and the soundtrack for the rest of the night is pretty much set. When an Italian or French track comes on she translates for me, and when Hey Eugene comes on she always says, "Martello, are you sure you have never been a Eugene?" To which I always reply "Of course not!" Which is kind of a lie, but I swear I really did lose that's girl's number that time - wrote it on a piece of paper napkin that somehow evaporated during the process of loading a bunch of drunks into the truck and making sure they all got home safe.

But while we're making dinner? That's when when my tiny galley kitchen becomes more than a kitchen - it becomes ground zero for the Fiomartello Dance Party. We take turns with the stereo, collaborate with the preparation tasks, and try our best not to knock each other over. The music skews towards soul and funk (an area of blissful sonic agreement) and the dance moves skew toward early 70's Soul Train.

In a way, I guess it's sort of like that section of "Forrest Gump" where Jenny comes back to Alabama and they whoop it up for a while, except that instead of Skynyrd, we play stuff like this. (Go to the link, hit play, prepare to be funkified.)

I'll go ahead admit it to you right now - we look absolutely ridiculous, but we don't care. A large part of our fun involves improvised, over-the-top dance moves that you'd never do in public - not even at the alcohol-soaked wedding receptions of summer.

You see, I've been to those receptions, and I've seen you lushes on the late-night dance floor. And while I'm afraid you'll simply have to take my word for it, know this and know it well:

We have you beat.

Ciao!

Tanto va la gatta al lardo che ci lascia lo zampino: (Or: I Have Seen Your Future, and It Contains No Mini-Vans.)

The first thing Fiorella noticed at the tee-ball game wasn't the kids, it was the moms.

"Martello, these women... they all have the same haircut," she said. "And they are all wearing capri pants."

"That's silly," I replied. "They don't all look... uh... Oh my God, you're right."

"Martello, I could never do this. I could never be a soccer mom."

"I'm not asking you to be a soccer mom."

"Martello, I am glad to be here at your game, but I hope I do not look like a soccer mom."

I laughed and kissed the top of her head (which is easy, 'cuz she's all of five-foot-nuthin'.)

"No, you do not. Your hair is too long and you're wearing a very pretty dress. You don't look like a soccer mom, you look like Coach Martello's exotic and mysterious ladyfriend."

"Martello can you say that again?"

"Coach Martello's exotic and mysterious ladyfriend?"

"Yes. I like that."

"Good."

"And not a soccer mom?"

"No," I laughed. "Most certainly not a soccer mom."

The kids of course took right to her. The more outgoing ones handled the initial ice-breaking, and by the time the final post-game juice boxes were being passed out, they were all looking for excuses to talk to Fiorella and show her various objects they found in the dirt. To her credit, she not only handled her mob of curious mini-fans with great aplomb, but she somehow also managed to keep her dress absolutely immaculate.

Riding back home, she told me about how the moms went out of their way during the game to both make her feel welcome and pimp me out to the nth degree.

"Martello, the soccer moms..."

"Tee-ball moms," I corrected.

She glared at me and resumed. "The soccer moms, they said many nice things about you."

"That's cool. I guess I'm doing something right."

"They said you are very good at this, and that you are very patient."

"Patience is essential," I said. "If you don't have it, you have no business coaching kids. What else did they say?"

Fiorella smiled and shook her head no.

"Aw, c'mon!" I protested.

"Nice things."

"Such as?"

"Martello, I am not a soccer mom, but I am still a woman and a woman does not tell everything."

"Not even an Italian woman?"

"Soprattutto an Italian woman."

Nice. I guess I set myself up for that one.

I felt the tingle of more dialogue brewing in my head. Words began to form, and yet...

Right there? That moment? That's where a smart man just shuts up and drives.

Me?

I did just that.

Trust me, I'm as shocked as anyone.

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare la donna mia: (Or: I Didn't Set Out to Cohabitate with an Italian Woman - It Just Kinda Happened...)

People always say "start at the beginning," but it can be hard to tell where that is exactly, especially when you're in the middle of a story that's still unfolding. It's possible that this particular beginning was twelve years ago, but you could also make a strong case for two months ago. You could even make a respectable argument for several points in between, with ten years ago and eight years ago having particular merit.

So we'll skip to the now.

Fiorella is sound asleep in the next room, still exhausted from her long journey and still stuck on Italy time. I could probably slide my Chrome CD into the stereo, crank it up to eleven, and she'd still be out cold. I compromise by playing some contemporary ambient at a volume far below eleven. Somewhere a tad shy of three I think, hovering just above the threshold of hearing like a small child peeking over a table.

Admittedly, ambient music is an acquired taste - it's simply not busy enough for most folks. I tried playing some earlier while we ate dinner, and Fiorella looked at me and said in her disarmingly accented English, "Martello, this music is very strange. When do they start singing?"

"They don't. It's all instrumental."

"What is a person supposed to do when they listen to such music."

"I think they're just supposed to chill out."

Fiorella considered this for a moment and said, "I do not think this music helps me chill out."

"Well, I use it for other stuff too. Like getting ready for one of my games. Or when I travel through time."

"Scusa? When you what?"

"When I travel through time."

"Martello, do you say that you travel through time?"

"Yes, sort of. In a way," I said as I refilled her wine glass. "Sometime while you're here I'll try show you how."

Fiorella brought the Chianti to her lips, paused for a second, and took a hearty sip.

"Martello, sometimes you say things that are very strange. May I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Can you make this music go away?"

Which of course got me laughing, 'cuz she's always had this quirky little way of saying things. And then she started laughing because I started laughing, which only made me laugh harder because she's got that laugh of hers, and the next thing I know I have red wine shooting out of my nose.

She handed me a napkin as she stood up. "Martello, this is not a sexy look for you. You should not sneeze wine, you should drink it."

"True enough," I said, composing myself as I took the napkin. "Thanks."

"Martello, I wish to play some opera music now," she announced as she plugged her iPod into the stereo.

"Go ahead," I replied, having finally composed myself. "What's this one about?"

She hesitated with her answer, and I assumed it was because she was trying to figure out a concise way of summarizing the plot. The truth, however, was much more diabolical. She was setting me up.

With the patience of an assassin, she waited and watched. And as I took a hefty swig out of my glass she said, "It is a very beautiful opera about a buffone who sneezes wine."

[SNARF!]

Dammit. She got me again.

Chi la fa l'aspetti, my dear. I shall get you back. But not now - you need your rest. Part of our deal, remember?

And besides, I have to write a post for a blog that still I haven't made up my mind whether or not to tell you about.