We hear so much about “culture wars” that we tend to forget that art itself (movies, books, games) are also in the midst of an unsung combat. We live in an age when some great movies are made, but so often they are overshadowed by an almost terminal level of slick shake-n-bake blockbusters that are all eye candy and no soul. Too many of us are willingly hypnotized by the new wave of heartless, artless filmmaking that is all CGI and no passion; all cheap glitz and no wonder; all cold action beats and no magic.

Super 8 is what we need.

Remember the way Jurassic Park made you feel, the first time the camera panned across to show the brontosauruses wading in the lake?

Do you recall the delirious joy of Raiders of the Lost Ark, or the playful innocence of The Goonies, or the mystical spell cast by Close Encounters, or the heart-warming (and heart-lighting) friendship in E.T.?

Then you need Super 8.

Super 8 has been called an homage to the film’s Executive Producer Steven Spielberg. This is a correct assessment, though I hasten to point out that J.J. Abrams doesn’t stoop to a grab-bag of “Oh I get it!” references. Super 8 is an homage the way one is supposed to be done: It draws on the wonder, the awe, the magic of the 1970s-1980s Spielberg, and serves up an original tale done in the style of its inspiration.

It is exactly what many a modern “big budget” flick is not. It isn’t the lifeless travesty that was the Star Wars prequels, or the bleary noise of any number of over-the-top-look-at-these-explosions voodoo that is the latest zeitgeist of Hollywood.

J.J. Abrams proves that he is a master of developing characters. He builds this film around characters, and he invites us to care about them because he cares about them. Super 8 is no gimmick. The visual effects are utterly secondary, if not tertiary. The first focus of this film is first and foremost the little kids who find themselves caught up in an exhilarating (and even violent) adventure.

So what’s the second focus, if we’re relegating f/x to being bronze medalist? The second focus is the spirit of cinematic wonder. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a movie that handily teleports me back to being a kid again. And it doesn’t do it cheaply — it weaves an authentic passion, and Super 8 soars as a result.In a word, I’d call this film genuine.

Yes, there are effects and explosions and a dozen different varieties of awesomeness. But it has the old-school patience to start small and build. It doesn’t have a talentless producer leaning over it, demanding a cheap thrill and ADD-style action. For example, it isn’t I Am Number Four, a film that feels like it was put together by a marketing committee. It isn’t the obnoxious circus of the last dozen “blockbusters” I’ve seen — when anemic scripts and bad directing are thinly veiled by CG so thick it melts our eyes and asks if we are entertained.

Tonight, minutes back from seeing Super 8, I was entertained… and I was also reminded of how true talents can make movies fun again.

My steampunk story “Checkmate,” published in the most recent issue of Electric Velocipede, has been making ripples. The story’s theme (war reduced to a chess-like competition on a global scale) first occurred to me twenty years ago, and which subsequently defied all attempts to write it. I was only fifteen when I wrote the first version of it, printed back then on a dot-matrix printer. It was bad.

In the ensuing years I would try it again and again, convinced that the core storyline was worthwhile. Yet it never really clicked for me, and I kept it in a distant corner of my mind. There it sat, gathering dust, and yet like a stubborn ember from a fireplace would never wholly extinguish, and the slightest rush of oxygen in its direction would make burn a hole in the darkness.

About a year ago, I dusted it off once again, and decided to move the story from straightforward science-fiction to the pleasantly eccentric subgenre of steampunk.

And it worked. Like gears in a Victorian clock, everything came together. I was off and running with my first sentence, finished the story in a single weekend, and had it accepted for publication in two weeks.

Since its publication, it has been earning all the right kind of attention.

From Locus Online:

In this version of the Victorian world, the Chesswar has taken the place of battles between massed armies. Edward Oakshott is a Knight who has descended to the subterranean waters [it's not clear that they are the usual sewers] beneath London to meet a mysterious sorcerer who calls himself Thoth in order to purchase his aid against a robotic Russian Rook. No Knight has ever defeated a Rook.

“Each Chessman had an established menu of technological enhancements agreed upon by international guidelines. Edward’s success against four Spanish Pawns, a Portuguese Bishop, and even that legendary public duel with the German Knight was owed to an alchemy of skill, knowledge, and chance.

Readers might be excused if they look at the title of this zine and wonder: Where is the steampunk? Here, in spades, is all the steampunk they might crave: ladies with deadly parasols, rocket packs, robotic war machines, and the mannered imperial society behind it all. A well-executed specimen of the species, an alternate version of the ways technology affects warfare and the individuals who engage in it.

And this came in from Rise Reviews:

“Checkmate” by Brian Trent take place in Thoth’s underworld and is populated by literal chessmen seeking to thwart the efforts of a Rook to attack London. There is a decidedly Victorian feel to the story but it never stoops into familiar steampunk tropes in order to tell the story. The thought of playing literal chess over land is a compelling premise that pulls the reader through this unique story.

And from “The Portal” –

“Checkmate” by Brian Trent is a nice bit of steampunk. Warriors based on chess pieces defend the great nations in lieu of war. A Russian Rook is advancing on London and a heroic British Knight, Edward, prepares to defend his nation. Rooks are more powerful than Knights, so he seeks out a mysterious weapons dealer, Thoth, who lives beneath London, to try to gain the advantage. The story builds nicely to the duel, and the duel itself is well described…. Another fun story.”

“Checkmate” was my first steampunk tale; while I had always admired the creative aesthetic of the genre, I had never tried my hand at it. So my thanks are due to that battered wooden chess-set my father first gave to me, a family heirloom from Europe, which first inspired this tale all those years ago.

In related news, my UTNE article “America’s Addiction to Belief” has gotten some nice mention on johnwilcock.net. That, of course, is the John Wilcock behind the Village Voice, and all-around underground press iconoclast:

BOTH THE “birthers” and the “truthers” are discussed in the Humanist by Brian Trent who explains that their “blind allegiance” thrives on the false principle that all opinions are equal, “even those without a shred of factual data, documentation or reasoned methodology”. Trent says that throughout history there have always been irrational true believers but ominously “we have taken this tendency to new heights”. In 2009, he writes, half the U.S. population accepted creationism—”one of the only developed nations where the subject is even a debate anymore”.

*

IN other news, these last few weeks has seen me in my first executive producer position as I put the finishing touches on pre-production for the film version of “The Theseus Woman.” Our crew is locked and loaded….

Here I am at the computer, anxiously checking for updates on the disaster. In the early moments of such catastrophes you can never trust the opening details. Especially today, as 24-hour news cycles demand incessant streams of information to keep the media god sated, and when hard facts are not known the void is filled with rumor and endless speculation. What we already know is ghastly enough: homes washed away, hundreds missing and presumed dead.

From the latest report:

Large fishing boats and other sea vessels rode high waves into the cities, slamming against overpasses or scraping under them and snapping power lines along the way. Upturned and partially submerged vehicles were seen bobbing in the water. Ships anchored in ports crashed against each other. Sendai airport was inundated with thick, muddy debris that included cars, trucks, buses and even light planes.

Last night I was up very late, returning from a rainy drive to New York for business, and I subsequently woke late. But once I logged onto my home computer, the news flashes hit me. Japan! Tsunami. 8.9 on the Richter scale.

And my very first thought was for my Japanese friends from college, most of whom I still speak to regularly. Where were they? How many are stateside? How many were in the affected regions?

Are they and their families safe?

Then I logged onto Facebook and was reminded of the power of friends. Real friends, authentic friendships, rather than generic friend-lists of social networking.

My old college circle was already online and reconnecting. The first post had gone out with a mighty “HEADS UP” for me, Patrick, Alice, Gary, Dan, Ann, and Bill. All core members of my college family. Linked across seas and mountains and states and nations. Reaching through the web, checking on our fondest fellows in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Has anyone heard from Kaz??

What about Nori? Is he okay?

A mad dash, a frantic fear-driven scramble. Instantly we were all online and connecting across miles and nations.

Then Nori Tanaka’s update from Japan:

Holy shit! ! Still shaking!
It’s end of world?!

A short time later comes Kaz Shibata’s reassurance:

“I, all my family and friends are OK.
…Thank you=)
My mom told me my dog gets excited…
It was biggest earthquake in the recorded history. (M8.8)
Tokyo got also heavy shake but not much damage.
Still shaking almost every 30min – 1h.
I just came back from my business trip from Osaka and I got the eartquake in the station.
My room was no problem!
Only my Downy was failed off from shelf.”

This followed by our old college staffer Edward Lazarus, posting to all:

Teikyo Post friends— I am trying to track down Asako (Asa) Itabashi—now married—-we lost touch a few years ago after I left Post. Can anyone direct me towards her?

to which Gary posts a helpful universal link:

Looking for someone in Japan? Google Person Finder: 2011

There are fires, and derailed trains, and the ominous possibility of a leaking nuclear power plant as I write this. For all the drama we bring to our own lives, here is the real deal (and the reason why basic humanism must be the prevailing code for us all.)

In the midst of it, my friend Alice offered an illuminating and much-needed tension-breaking moment:

Life has changed–we are all awake at 6 am–Dorothy we are not in college anymore…

And yet, I would hasten to add, the friendships we made there are as strong as ever, so maybe we still are.

My Our thoughts and hopes are with the people of Japan.

Technically this isn’t exactly true, as I owned many fish as a child. Anyone who’s owned fish knows that this is basically like owning a short-lived three-dimensional screensaver. My parent’s backyard soon became an aquatic graveyard. Fish are well-adapted creatures, but utterly tedious as pets. The Devonian wasn’t exactly rolling with affection.

Six years ago, I was living with my friend and roommate Jack. Jack had a white German shepherd. Again, this was not MY pet, although I frequently played with him, walked him, and brushed him. The dog’s name was Loki after the Norse trickster god (Jack is wild about Nordic mythology). And while both Loki the canine and Loki the immortal mischief-maker were wont to cause chaos, the former was an innocent spirit, gleefully suffering under the delusion that all human beings are wonderful creatures. We lived in a secluded house in Connecticut and neighbors were effectively hidden by forest, so he didn’t often see other people… but whenever I brought a girlfriend by or friends stopped to visit or a postman came to the door, Loki’s ears would perk up like furry satellite dishes and he’d go berserk with happiness. “ANOTHER ONE?” he seemed to be saying with that tongue-lolling, tail-wagging frenzy. “How many of you delightful beings exist in this weird world???”

The answer, my dear Loki, is nearly 7 billion. And some of them belong to the Westboro Baptist Church. Sorry to spoil your dreams.

After Loki and Jack moved out, I was a petless bachelor. Then came Donna, my new girlfriend. And a couple years into that relationship, we inherited Charlie the cockatiel.

Now, I introduce readers to Athena Whitefoot.

The decision to get a rabbit was equal parts laborious and spontaneous. I didn’t really want another pet. I wouldn’t classify myself as cat person, and Loki was enough dog for one lifetime. Donna and I had discussed if there might be a third option. She politely differed with my initial suggestions of ocelot, lemur, spider monkey, Okapi, and wombat.

So we looked at rabbits.

For years, I had known rabbits as the obnoxious entities of many a cartoon, and as the tiny furry ninjas of my deciduous backyard. Cartoons do not do them justice. In real life, rabbits are inexcusably adorable phantoms.

Donna and I discussed rabbits. I approached the subject as I approach just about everything: I read, researched, and interviewed until there was a collective lagomorphs hopping about in my soul.

And yet, I let it stay a hypothetical element. Reading about rabbits is not the same as bringing one into your home. As with everything else in our fanatically divisive American culture, owner reviews typically fell on one side or the other of rabid rabbit partisanship. In the blue corner: Rabbits are f*cking angels on Earth.

In the red corner: Rabbits are boring, nasty devils only good for shooting.

I resigned myself to inaction. Rabbits. Whatever. In my mind I let them sit like a neutron star, in that I know neutron stars are out there, and neutron stars are interesting, and they are small, but they don’t really affect my life. So, whatever.

Then one day, I bought a rabbit.

It was a few days into 2011 (the Year of the Rabbit, mind you) and Donna and I were at a mall. She was shopping, and I was pretending I was imprisoned in a futuristic arcology jail four thousand years in the future on the planet Medusa. I was doing this, I might add, as a mental exercise for my latest novel. Also, because for me malls might as well be futuristic arcology jails four thousand years in the future on the planet Medusa.

Gradually we wandered into the mall’s pet store. We strayed to the bunny enclosures. It was like looking at tribbles.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” I said.

Donna looked at me in surprise. “Enough of what?”

“Inaction.” And with that, I grabbed a bunny and walked with

Donna to one of the little rooms where we could see how the little critter acted towards us. Would there be chemistry? Inquisitiveness? What were such creatures doing in a jail on Medusa?

The first rabbit fled from us and cowered in the corner, eyes so wide I actually feared they would hemorrhage. We put that one back and tried another. Same situation, only this one let its execratory system underscore its terror towards us.

We tried one more. Three times a charm, right?

Here’s a picture from that initial meeting:

Athena (as we would soon name her) didn’t run from us. She expressed a kind of guarded optimism, actually. She came over and sniffed us, checked us out, explored the room. When I held out my hand she ran over to see what it was. Donna smiled. And we bought her.

Since I see no point in having another living screensaver, I broke with the general tradition of leaving a rabbit in a cage or hutch for its entire freakin’ life. Athena sleeps in her cage at night, and has the house to run around in during the day.

She is inquisitive, stubborn, affectionate, stubborn, playful, strange, and friendly. Oh, and stubborn.

She is not an angel or a demon. So once again, I find myself falling back on my default position when it comes to the Blue and Red corners of American debate: They can fuck off, thank you very much.

Athena Whitefoot (she has blonde-tan coloration except for one foot, which is cloud-white) is a bizarre little being replete with personality. We litter trained her in two weeks. I built a little castle which she refuses to use, because apparently the living room carpet is far more interesting than the wooden Bavarian-style fortress I made for her. She likes hay and veggies and Playstation controllers.
Meet Athena.

She’s a welcome addition to my household.

believes in being direct and honest with people, especially friends and family. Too many people walk on eggshells and construct Noh plays full of sound and fury. Be open, honest, receptive to critique, and solve problems through one-on-one communication. Leave egos and insecurities at the door. If that’s too much, then it’s time to edit or reevaluate existing relationships, whatever they may be.

is absolutely overjoyed by the news that the Coliseum of Rome is going to be refurbished! Now, let’s get Rhodes, Alexandria, Ephesus, and Giza on the classical train.

is deeply annoyed that they have remade The Mechanic. The original with Charles Bronson and Jan Michael Vincent is one of my favorite films of the ’70s, alongside The Warriors. Hollywood, how about one year without sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots? How about being fucking original for a change?

is watching the sleet. Sounds like the name of some insidious alien invasion. The Sleet Fleet has come to turn Earth into a snowglobe. I’m officially tired of the snow this year.

finally got around to seeing Michael Clayton, starring George Clooney and Tilda Swinton. It was a masterful film. The writing was polished, the direction flawless, and the entire picture was painted with an attentive realism — no sparkly Hollywood tricks here, just a terrifically engaging drama.

A colossal ice-spider descended on prospect last night, spun everything into crystalline cocoon, and intends to keep us frozen for future feasts.

Gender, racial, and even homosexual equality have never been better in America. Violent crime has been falling for years. Our society is evolving and improving, and yet there remains a group of people who gleefully point to images of tragedy and chant about the End Times — this group whose idea of morality is Biblical-based genocide and eternal torture. I think they’re demented.

Michele Bachmann is an imbecile.

The ice-spider returned. Again and again.

Rationalism is not an iron cage, as Max Weber put it, but rather an iron scaffold used to construct the future. For millennia mankind has been enslaved to superstition and religious philosophies which narrowed the worldview to what a few theocratic regimes imposed on us; rationalism liberates us from these petty chains and has us look at the world the way it really is.

It has been a strange year for me, and for many people I know. There have been deaths, breakups, anguishes and sorrows. There have been triumphs and discoveries as well. It isn’t about balancing it all out. It isn’t about celebration, or despair, but both. It’s akin to my philosophy about funerals: Don’t edit the person (or year) that has passed, and don’t lionize them unfairly. It is neither optimism nor nihilism that define our waking moments, but both realism, passion, and imagination… working together.

I watched 144 movies this year, read 71 books, finished 6 video games, completed two novels and one volume of short stories, and wrote 4 screenplays (including the short film I’m producing in 2011.)

I lost 8 people in my family this year. I gained a pet. I went to Canada for research and pleasure. I raged against fools and monsters, drew blood, made love, and changed the landscape of my life. In the literal and figurative, life is organic.

Now there is more to do. Further books about Louisiana bayous, rainy British alleys, gory fields of war, treasures buried, and mysterious islands emerging from the mist. More journeys through Russia, Rome, and Madrid; more explorations into the sweltering jungles of India or the meltwater marshes of Mongolia.

More for us to do as a society and a species. Scientists have learned to make paralyzed mice walk, and have also reversed their aging. A technological Horn of Plenty has spilled over, and our eyes have pressed ever further into the reaches of space. While some to choose to believe in Apocalypse, others are extending the path of progress.

More politics to enrage me. More trolls to vanquish, friends to make, battles to win.

More fights to have, books to write,  films to watch and create. Like the narrator of A Descent into the Maelstrom, there are deeper sorrows and brilliant enlightenments, while we struggle to lasso that protean dragon of chaos through sheer force of willpower.

More opportunities to change the world, and make of it what we want.

Happy New Year’s 2011.

Brothers

“Down Memory Line” is a sadistic tale of revenge set in the far future. It appears in the new Winter issue of Dark Valentine, and is in the running for the Pushcart Prize. I wrote it last summer.

Also published is “Rahotep,” my answer to the vampire and werewolf craze. But the story has its origins many, many years ago in my life, far before vampires became sparkly and werewolves were heartthrobs. I have had a secret project cooking for years. A fantasy epic of unusual scope; I have a passion for intricate, highly detailed worlds and histories, and “Rahotep” is just the start.

*

I just rewatched Inception, now that it’s out on DVD, and was once again delighted by the fact that an extremely complex script which demanded the audience rise to its level (rather than the typical Hollywood culture of dumbing things down) actually did spectacularly well at the box office. Wow. A film masterfully constructed like a Chinese puzzle box that actually succeeded in theaters. Urge to hope… rising…

This holiday season, I also inherited a cockatiel. No one can tell me how old he is, though tales are woven suggesting multiple homes and levels of care over a decade of life. His name is Charlie, which means that on any given day, he is referred to in this house as Charlicus, Charlos, Charliehotep, Lugal-Charlie-sin, Charlie-sama, and other variants as the mood strikes. He watches me while I type, peering intently from the cage, seemingly fascinated by his new surroundings and expressing a guarded optimism with his strange menu of birdsong chirps. He doesn’t like to come out of his cage yet, and squawks like a demented velociraptor when I try to take him out.

He also likes to watch TV, pressing his bright cheeks against the cage bars to see what’s going on. Yesterday I decided to put a movie on for him while I worked on my latest novel. My choice of film? Hitchock’s The Birds. I did it as a joke, really, but this cockatiel who is typically so quiet was chirping wildly at his onscreen cohorts as if cheering them on.

My girlfriend Donna and I are proceeding slowly with him.

Happy Solstice, Yule, and Saturnalia season to everyone.

Donna, creating a wreath of such circular perfection that Archimedes is drooling in his grave.

From left to right: Ali Berman, Marty Lang, and Brian Trent

I have often said that my greatest gift in life has been friendship. For whatever roll of the dice and stir of the social pot, I have been gifted with extraordinary friends. It isn’t merely their talents or wits, their unique brands of humor and perceptiveness. It is the loyalty we all have had to each other. Driving across state lines to help a good friend in need. Sacrificing those late-night hours to listen and give counsel. Battle-drums sound on the midnight plain, and we huddle together in our tent, defying fear and disappointment and sorrow.

It is that eternal combination of late-night pizza, 20-sided dice, and roleplaying games. That midnight phone call to share a secret or unburden a soul. That network of allies and soulmates which is the closest to religion I have ever felt.

The voice of a friend. A shared smile in a darkened theater. A group walk along a foggy beach, a mountain trail, or a roadtrip. Planning to conquer the world with generals you trust and love.

These last couple months have been particularly special, as several reports of career success for them have appeared on the horizon…

Marty Lang directed his first feature film, Rising Star, which I was proud to have been a financial backer. Marty is a fellow cinemaphile, and is a rather quotable fellow. Marty is the nicest 6’8 filmmaker you’ll ever meet. (He’s also been the basis for a couple characters I’ve written. You can always spot them. They’re tall.)

My brother — and friend — David Michaels is playing Ali Hakeem on a national tour of Oklahoma! I saw him at the Shubert in New Haven for the Connecticut leg of the tour. He’s a spectacularly gifted actor and singer, a Jim Carey knack for physical comedy, and a joyfully bizarre guy (check out his first commercial and you’ll see what I mean.) Hard to believe that Broadway voice now emits from the kid I used to argue about Atari with.

One of my longest-running friends, Doug Sobon, a supremely gifted actor, artist, sculptor, storyteller, and all-around Renaissance man, is on the Hartford stage now!

My friend Scott Antonucci, actor and screenwriter, appears in the Crash the Superbowl Challenge video. Yes, he is the one in the black two-piece.

My friend Maria Orsini sang the National Anthem at the pre-season opening game of the New York Rangers versus the New Jersey Devils on September 23, at Madison Square Garden. Take a listen and tell me that applause isn’t deserved. And it’s with that voice that Maria sings me “Happy Birthday” every September 18.

Kristin Colapinto (my friend, although if I use that word too much I’ll come across as John McCain during the 2008 so-called debates) is the Social Vixen herself.

Jay Novella, radio personality and skeptic of the ever-popular Skeptics Guide to the Universe podcast, who I expect to chill with until Ted Williams is ready to play ball again.

And to all of my friends, who know exactly who they are. They appear elsewhere in these pages, and in my heart.

No one would choose the whole world

on condition of being alone.

No one would rule the great mountains of Earth

to have as his brother a stone.

So perhaps on my quest I found gold-lacquered fame

or mapped out the world to its ends.

The only real treasure which mattered to me

is that I made journeys

with friends.

As a rule, I am furiously opposed to remakes, reboots, sequels, and prequels. Every once in a while, though, exceptions emerge from the tide of mediocrity and abomination…

The first is a longtime favorite of mine — John Carpenter’s The Thing. Not only is it better than the Howard Hawkes original, it is far closer to John Campbell’s excellent short story “Who Goes There” and takes it all for a darker spin. Fantastic special effects; no uber-sleek CGI here. When the Thing changes form, it does so by messily breaking into its kaleidoscope of shapes. A head rips off its neck, sprouts legs, and scuttles away for safety. The sound effects are top-rate, and the visual imagery is unforgettable.

The movie also manages to create a palpable sense of isolation and paranoia; a superb cast led by Kurt Russell and Keith David solidify this horror tale. Definitely one of Carpenter’s very best films.

“I’d rather not spend the rest of the winter TIED TO THIS *@$#! COUCH!”

The second film we watched is also typical of 80′s horror; grisly, dripping special effects in splatter-based full-color. But it is nonetheless an excellent movie: David Cronenberg’s The Fly, and like Carpenter’s The Thing is one of the precious few remakes superior to the original. Before he settled on playing nerdy caricatures, Jeff Goldblum gave cinema a chilling and credible performance of a brilliant man being ravaged by mutation and madness. His underrated performance drives the film even more than the grotesque effects, though the latter is the oozing, blistering, fleshy centerpiece. It’s all straight-up Cronenberg, whose obsession about physical permutations is his signature style (eXistenz, Videodrome) and even finds its way into the dialogue (look for the scene where Geena Davis and Goldblum discuss flesh and how it even makes old women crazy.)

“I’ll hurt you if you stay.”

Last on the list is a 1970s offering. The original Invasion of the Body Snatchers was the genre’s perfect take on Cold War paranoia and McCarthyism. Not to mention, it stars a McCarthy too: Kevin.

The remake is, while not necessarily better than the original, almost comes across as a sequel. (Look for Kevin McCarthy’s clever cameo.) Augmented by a better backstory and excellent visual effects, Philip Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a frightening and kinetic horror film with a slam-bam ending. The camerawork is a bit eccentric, recalling the dutch angles and experimental editing of the previous decade, but the result is a classic nightmare. Too bad the latest attempt, The Invasion, failed to match the standard here.

Fourteen days later, she was dead. This pic is of both her and her husband, circa WWII:

I got to see her twice before the end. On her final Wednesday, I sat by her bedside to find that she was semi-conscious, dosed on painkillers that were doing very little to suppress the cancer that was systematically destroying her. I had hoped to talk to her one last time. I held her fragile hand and thought of all the history inside her, this tough Italian broad who was born in 1922.

She had one moment of lucidity. And what did she do? Told me she was sorry. I asked why.  She replied, “I can’t offer you anything to eat.” Italian to the end.

The following night I visited her again. This time there was no lucidity.  She remained unconscious but in agony, and I arrived just in time to watch her trying to pull out her IV and oxygen line in her spasms of torment.  I had to hold her wrists down while the hospital staff added morphine to her IV.

Her pain defied the morphine.

It took several minutes and a higher dose before she sank into a seemingly peaceful sleep.  I leaned over and told her I would be back.  That was Thursday.

I didn’t return on Friday.  It had been a long day, and I resolved to visit her on Saturday.

She died Friday night, a few minutes before midnight.

Yes, it’s 2010 and we still have people who are dying from cancer.  $10 billion a month fighting an unjustified war in Iraq, and no national commitment to defeating a threat which kills people by the millions, every single year.  Our national priorities are so demented as to be inexcusable.

Mary Tropasso was “Nana” to me and my brother growing up.  She was born on February 9, 1922, and lived most of her life on South Main in Waterbury.  A midwife assisted her birth.

She came from a large Italian family, six sisters and one brother. Her own mother was Rose Davino, born not far from Mount Vesuvius and Naples. The Davinos owned a general store, and Rose used to ride a donkey. She met Frank Cipriano (my future great-grandfather) at that store; Frank was a farmer and shepherd.

My grandmother Mary was born in America when Frank and Rose, newly married, immigrated to the New World.  Nana and her sister Jane used to sing in a local theater for Italian-Americans, and when my great-grandfather opened up the popular restaurant Johnny’s on South Main, she worked as a cashier.  Later she worked at Apothecary Hall, a pharmacy/soda shop like something out of It’s a Wonderful Life.

She met my grandfather Samuel at a wedding. My grandfather (“Poppy” to the future me and my brother) was also Italian, but came from the rougher side of tracks in America and of the darker elements of the 1930s which isn’t often talked about when people reflect on the good ole days.  Born to an abusive and alcoholic father, his first job had been selling papers and trying not to get beaten up by the local Irish boys in town.  He was handsome, charming, and brazen: at the wedding, he approached Mary and asked her to dance.

“I have to ask my father,” she said, to which he replied at once: “Well I’m not asking your father. I’m asking you.”

Unhappy with this “fresh” attitude, the dance never happened. Later that night, there was a knock on her door. She answered it to find her cousin and her cousin’s friend.

Samuel.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Thanks for the greeting,” Samuel replied, and came in.

That inauspicious beginning led to romance in the following months. And then World War II broke out and Samuel was drafted. He told Mary he wanted to propose to her, but didn’t want to make her a widow. And he nearly did while fighting in Africa and Europe, at one point being grazed in the chin by a bullet. But then the war ended, and Samuel came home and married the woman who hadn’t even wanted to dance with him.

My Nana was a loving, nervous, high-strung woman by the time I knew her. She was, like many Italians in her neighborhood, superstitious in the extreme; once when she broke her arm as a child, her own mother took her to the local witch doctor instead of a medical professional — who, amazingly enough, couldn’t cure a fractured limb by chanting.  When she actually was taken to an actual doctor who used SCIENCE instead of magic, that doctor had a few choice words for the earlier “treatment.” (And much later, when my Nana lost her second child to illness, another Italian witch doctor told her that the child had died because the Magical and Divine Mother Mary of Heaven had been jealous.)

Everyone says their grandmothers are phenomenal cooks. Nana actually was, although she pretty poor at math: cooking enough to sate a legion of Thracian barbarians when her holiday guests only numbered six.

By the time I knew my grandfather, he was old-fashioned (never swore) and subscribed to that stubborn model of reticence and refusing to show his feelings.  But he was a nice enough man who, when prodded enough, would talk about the war and his life.

That’s what cancer destroyed.