Chapter 1: Scandal in the Vatican

The reporter had always aspired to make a difference. His agrarian upbringing gave him both a strong work ethic and very pure sense of right and wrong.  Some would say he was obsessed with his job, but his efforts had paid off. He’d reached what he believed was the pinnacle of his craft: the pope beat.

He spent countless hours researching every last angle, pushing the Holy See Press Office to “give up the goods”, to the point of alienating his sources. He was a man possessed. And now, through the modern version of “Deep Throat”, he was about the break the story of a lifetime – a corruption scandal that promised to shake the foundations of the Catholic establishment.

And while the alienation he created now would almost certainly cost him dearly in the future, his questions were creating movement from deep within the walls of the Vatican.

***

The scandal weighed heavily on all involved, and in particular, those in the leadership hierarchy of the Catholic Church. The pope called a meeting with his most senior cardinals under the pretenses of reviewing status, but kept the true agenda to himself, preferring to control the process in his own way.

As the cardinals filed in, they sought to break the tension by engaging in small talk as they assembled around a table.

“Have you ever heard of Ice-T?” asked one cardinal of another.

“You mean the drink?” responded the other.

“No, I mean the entertainer. I was watching a television show where he was speaking to another man and he said ‘What do you do when your dishwasher breaks?’ and then, after a pause, he said ‘Kick her ass.’ It seems people yearn for the old ways…”

Another cardinal was puzzling over American football. He and a small group were huddled around his smartphone watching a video clip of a recent game and were trying to understand the strategy and rules:

Video on the cardinal's smartphone

“The players all seem very large, fit, and skilled, but I don’t understand how you would practice this ‘move’. They must have spent many hours perfecting it. Do you suppose that additional points are scored hitting one’s head on your teammate’s backside? Is the object to wedge the ball between the buttocks of your teammate?”

Another in the group piped up. “Great question – I don’t understand the game either. It’s so complex… On a lighter note, did you hear that they have a team that actually calls themselves the ‘Rams’?” and the group burst out into vigorous laughter.

The pope arrived and the cardinals took their places at the table. The pope had just returned from a tour of Africa. Hale and hearty, he was tanned and reinvigorated. “All right, let’s come to order,” he said, and then asked, “What do we have on the docket for today?”, and the cardinals presented a summary of the mundane activities that come with running the pontificate – official statements, expenditures, and triaging of requests from all and sundry.

And then, just as the meeting appeared to be winding down, the pope revealed the true purpose of the gathering: “There’s one last issue we need to resolve. We all know about the leak. But it points to a larger issue: corruption. We must root out those responsible and fix this. And as you develop a plan to correct these transgressions, let your work be guided by the following tenet:”, and pulling from his seemingly endless store of Richard Nixon-isms, said, “If the Pope does it, that means it is not illegal,” and the other cardinals nodded thoughtfully and fingered their rosaries.

Having washed his hands of the problem, the pope rose to leave, and the cardinals, seeking to curry favor, began feigning interest the Pope’s trip; the pope obliged them by saying, “Did you know that the Popemobile has four-wheel-drive AND a snorkel? N’uff said.” And with that, he was gone like fumata bianca in a brisk wind, leaving the remaining cardinals with a tricky problem and no solution.

Remaining at the table, they were six.

At the head of the table sat the most senior cleric. He was uniquely skilled in administration and relied on his lieutenants for technical support and implementation of his vision. Even of keel, he never seemed to lose his composure, taking everything in stride.

To the senior cleric’s right sat a powerfully built swarthy man of tremendous intellect. In his youth he had toyed with the idea of becoming a thespian, and, because of his appearance, in re-enactments of “Spaghetti Westerns” with his like-minded friends he was made to “wear the sombrero” because of his complexion. He was quick to size up social situations and he always said the right thing at the right time.

Next to him sat an elderly cardinal; having committed his life to the Church but possessing limited ambition, he had reached the apex of his career decades earlier and had “plateaued” at an important yet non-mobile position in the hierarchy. And perhaps this static position had subconsciously affected him: He colored his silver locks a dirty brown to divert attention from the fact that his career appeared to be in a state of permanent suspended animation.

At the end of the table, facing the senior cleric, sat a tall, dark-haired cardinal with grey Mitt Romney-esque temples, and his smooth and supple skin suggested a much younger man than his years. Having found the bureaucracy oppressive, he had chosen to quit the Catholic Church altogether to pursue his life’s work elsewhere. This would be his last contribution to the church he had devoted so much to.

Rounding the corner of the table, another cardinal, embodying the “Peter Principle”, had bumbled his way to this point by asking simple-minded questions that his cleverer fellow men-of-the-cloth would answer, a Socratic-method-on-the-down-low, if you will. In doing so, they did all the heavy lifting while the cardinal remained unthreatening and diminutive. Unless he went off the reservation and jabbered stupidly.

And, seated to the left of the senior cleric, sat the sixth cardinal:  He had quit the church earlier for personal reasons but had recently rejoined and vaulted up the ladders of power with such haste that he had amassed over half the responsibilities of overseeing the whole church. To outsiders he seemed an unlikely commander of so many because of his youthful appearance; to insiders, the brilliance of his appointment was clear. When he spoke, it was done with purpose and subtlety and cleverness. And, if you looked closely at his eyes, you might notice that one of his pupils was larger than the other.

“We need to take an organized approach,” said the senior cardinal. “Suggestions?”

The elderly cardinal spoke up: “Well, okay, the way you fix a situation like this is to use the lessons of the past. You should be able to figure out what’s going on by looking to the past, okay? Most of the lessons you need to follow can be found in that famous book ‘Everything I needed to know I learned in the 70s’ – you know? Okay, lets see what we can do here. The butler took the pope’s documents and gave them to the reporter. What you do in this situation is gather the data and store it all in hanging manila folders, okay?”

A silence descended across the other cardinals as a look of puzzlement settled into each of their faces. Taking this as encouragement, the elderly cardinal continued: “Well, okay, the way you fix a situation like this is to use the lessons of the past. You should be able to figure out what’s going on by looking to the past, okay? Most of the lessons you need to follow can be found in that famous book ‘Everything I needed to know I learned in the 70s’ – you know? Okay, lets see what we can do here...”

The lead cardinal broke in, “Thanks very much for your suggestions, cardinal. Next?”

From the opposite end of the table, the Romney-esque cardinal weighed in: “As you know, we’ve gone over this many, many times. For all of our issues, we have some of the most morally upstanding people in the world in our employ – committed, all, to the teachings. Take young Vladimir, for example: a Catholic boy genius with the work ethic of a Protestant, absolutely committed to the church. And it’s not like he’s in some cesspool of moral turpitude like Las Vegas drinking beer and daydreaming; he’s here innovating, achieving incredible things in the holiest of places. We need to empower him to take ownership and create the process so that we might place all of the information at our fingertips and set these accounts straight.”

The bumbling priest ventured, “How might we do this? The accounts are a virtual labyrinth, with minotaurs behind every corner!”

The cardinal of the imbalanced retinae cleverly interjected, “Sounds like an ‘Inconvenient Truth’,” and chuckled.

The swarthy priest, hands folded across his chest, began with a low chuckle as well, and said, “An ‘Inconvenient Truth’, indeed. It isn’t like all of this just happened yesterday. It’s an accumulation of many small transgressions that have snowballed and now it’s out of control. Our preliminary investigation has revealed the degree of the problem, but it has also shone a light on the specific mechanisms that have polluted our system, uncontrolled and dangerous to us all. And it might seem as if you could make a broad appeal to the congregation as a whole, but I think we know what the right thing to do is.“

As he spoke, the intensity in his voice had risen, and now all eyes were trained on him. He continued: “We have no choice. We must follow process. Control of this must be centralized. And Vladimir must lead.” And, as if in an Arby’s commercial prepared for a Mexican television audience, a sombrero-shaped halo formed above his head.

The effect on the other cardinals was immediate. “Amen!”, proclaimed the one-big-one-small retinaed cardinal. “Hallelujah!”, proclaimed the Romney-esque cardinal. “L’chaim!”, proclaimed the bumbling cardinal, and thought clouds with three question marks in them formed above the heads of the other cardinals. Oblivious, he continued: “We have the moral authority to do this. Indeed, we have the moral obligation – we are at the vanguard, the keepers of the flame. We aren’t motivated by the fear of hell – like that circle inhabited by those engineers in Mexico enslaved by drug traffickers to fix their telecommunication networks – we are doing it for the glory of God. And while we’re on the subject of that other sausage-fest called engineering, at least we’re…” and he searched for the right term, until it came to him in a flash of inspiration, “…old!”

The rest of the cardinals were taken aback – speechless. The bumbler took this as a cue: “Let’s do this thing!”, and the spell was broken, and the cardinals placed their hands together and, following the lead cardinal, they shouted in unison, “Unus, duo, tres, sit domus ferte!“ and they broke to do the Lord’s work.

Guest post from "Snooki for Vice President of Mensa": "Identity Crisis"

Socrates famously said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I’ve taken this idea to heart, but I tend to focus on examining others’ observations about me relative to them. When I was born, the nurses bemoaned the fact that I was “the wrong type of Indian” as I was not birthright-eligible for Alaskan oil revenues. Which begs the question: if I had been the “right kind”, would that mean I only got a half-share? When I lived in France, in between insulting me for being associated with Reagan/Bush and my ridiculous accent, they’d say that I wasn’t even a real American because I wasn’t fat, and, vis a vis the American television shows that they couldn’t get enough of, wasn’t my tan just a little too dark? As you can imagine, these are some of my best friends today – when I see them now I do the whole kisses-on-the-cheeks thing, even with the men. But are they really “my people”?

Confusion reigns, as I sometimes seem to have become the accidental chameleon. After spending five minutes together, a woman at the Audi dealership asked me if I liked to be called Vinny. After meeting me in the flesh, Finnish colleagues refused to believe I was who I said I was: “No - with a name like that, he’s clearly Danish. Who are you?” But one of my favorites in the name-confusion category is my apparent Hebrew ancestry, which seems to fit like a yarmulke. Hell, how hard can it be to convince people that I’m from one of the Lost Tribes  - I’ve got teepee-dweller written all over me. If I start to get too many pointed questions challenging my identity I simply point out that we disappeared from the Biblical record in 720 BC and let that hang in the air for a second.

It’s great to have this low-hanging fruit at my fingertips – who doesn’t want other people to believe that they are either smarter or richer than they actually are? It's like Manischewitz from Heaven. To paint a convincing picture, I’ve worked on my Yiddish using conversational tools such as books like “Yiddish with George and Laura” where useful words are used in English sentences. For example, consider this exchange from the book:

“Mom is mad at you, George, “ says Jeb.

“Hey, Jeb,” says George. “How is your daughter, Noelle? Is she still taking Ex-Lax and smoking that farshlugginer crack?”

“You do not mean Ex-Lax,” says Jeb. “You mean Xanax. No, she is off drugs and in therapy.”

“Therapy schmerapy,” says George. “If someone has troubles they should talk to God.”

But this is a high stakes game. The Chosen are vigilant and frown on interlopers and you always run the risk of being outed as a goyim. One of my Jewish co-workers, upon being presented with the claim by a third party, immediately responded “Oh yes, that’s a common misperception. But have you ever looked closely at how his last name is spelled?” and followed it up with an intense look of wide eyes and raised eyebrows, and a knowing nodding erasing any remaining doubt.

Needless to say, this question of “my people” continues to prey on my mind. For example, I recently attended a birthday party for a friend of mine. She is a professional volleyball player – tall, elegant, and highly competitive, she had rented a volleyball facility for the party. Half of the attendees were from the volleyball world, and half of them were from the neighborhood, and my friend effortlessly inhabits these worlds of sport and community simultaneously. All of these were “her people”.

As the two groups split into different games, my friend remained with the amateurs and taught and encouraged us, and my self-consciousness was temporarily suspended. Many pointed out that they hadn’t played since college and laughed nervously hoping others would let them off the hook. I remained mum as my play suggested I’d never played at all. It felt like being a child again, under the watchful eye of a protective parent – the very definition of “my people”. As we played, we shouted and cheered each other on as we’d seen real athletes do on television, even exchanging high-fives, albeit only ones that Barbara Walters would have deemed convincing.

When it came time to eat the cake, our group gathered around and, after singing “happy birthday”, we began to eat. Our half, that is. I noticed, as I stuffed my pie-hole with refined carbohydrates and hydrogenated oil, that the athletes were not partaking. In between mouthfuls, the air was thick with observations from our half about the definition of the athletes’ abs – not like professional cheerleaders at a football game, but the sculpted female physiques that you only find in beer commercials. “Wow – what a six-pack!” I overheard one woman say to another, and I let out an involuntary “L’chaim!”

These otherworldly objects of physical perfection left me in a dreamlike state, as if I was watching a movie. But I was snapped out of my reverie as someone held up a moccasin in front of my eyes and asked if it was mine, and I agreed that while it made sense because of my ethnicity, I’d worn tennis shoes made in an Asian sweatshop to the party.

As our half completed our time “swilling at the trough”, I began helping to clean up. And as I carried the remains of the cake to the car, I could see the next group who’d rented the facility in the timeslot after ours just arriving in the parking lot. It was a group of African-Americans. They drove automobiles equipped with Hydraulics (those cars that bounce up and down on command) and I felt something that I identified as kinship. As a couple of children approached the door to the facility, I held it open, but they hesitated, and then a man from their group shouted out “Stranger danger!” For a moment, I thought he was kidding – I was still feeling that these were “my people” – but then he repeated it and I recognized my emotions to be nothing more than a 50% diluted shower of white guilt, a weaker version of the monsoons I see at the at parades in my community where everyone claps the hardest (but out of time) with the African-American drill teams, and that I had been deemed suspicious by my overcompensating actions (and perhaps by my semi-whiteness). I envisioned myself singing in the chorus at the end of Act 1 of Massenet’s opera Manon where the supertitle reads, “It’s a ridiculous situation! How unfortunate!”

Soon afterwards we were invited to attend Monday Night Football by friends who had corporate tickets. They had club seats that are some of the best in the house – the kind that I sit in on someone else’s $300 dime – and I assumed with some separation from the riff raff. But soon after I arrived I was roughly pushed aside by a stout, bald, angry-faced man on his way to the spot next to me, and I feared that my spectacular seats were about to devolve into something like the worst experience of sitting in coach next to an asshole with a seatbelt extender.

As kickoff neared, my new neighbor turned to me and said in a serious tone, “Are you a Packers fan?” and said that I was a Seahawks supporter, and he seemed to stare out into the middle distance but betrayed no affiliation. And then he said, “Let’s beat these Packers”, and shook my hand.

As the game began, my emotions took over I and held nothing back with wild shrieks and tomahawk chops with every Seahawks first down. My neighbor seemed to be enjoying the game in a more reserved fashion when without warning he cupped his hands in the form of a megaphone and shouted at a heavyset Rodgers-jersey-wearing Packers fan two rows down who’d stood up cheer, “Hey Rodgers!” When the fan didn’t turn around, he yelled again, “Hey Rodgers, sit down you fat fuck!”

An Artist's Depiction of the Events

This was a real fan and so was I – not some pathetic Lakers/Rams bandwagoner who chose not to talk about the latter during the lean years and continuously boasted about the former whilst ignoring their continuous violation of the salary cap. No, we bled blue and green regardless of taunts like “there is always next year” endured during the dark times. My three companions that I had come with did not appreciate his comments as much as I did, as they wrung their hands and a collective tension descended over them.  For my part, having been steeped in the traditions of PBS and nonviolence, settled on “What a great suggestion – I couldn’t see that corner of the end zone either”, even though all of the action was taking place on the other end of the field. My neighbor responded, “You’ve got to set the tone with these people,” and I thanked Yahweh that I wasn’t a Packers fan.

With his exertions, my neighbor had started to get a little hot, and he set his coat down over the back of the seat in front of him, and when the owner of the ticket to that seat (with thinning hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, and a conservative suit, I imagined him to be an accountant just getting off work to enjoy the corporate seats) arrived he tapped him on the shoulder and with a vicious look said “If you touch my jacket, you’re dead” and then after an uncomfortable silence he followed up with “Just kidding!” with a broad grin and everyone nervously laughed.

With the ice broken, we soon became fast friends as I had identified him as “good people”.  Proffering a small open Ziploc bag, he asked, “Would you like an almond?” and “I eat these for my figure.”  My companion on the other side of me sensed a sympathetic opening and said, “Please, be nice to everyone!” in an attempt to bring the situation back under control. My new friend looked at her, and then looked at me with a conspiratorial grin and said “She’s telling me that, but if you laugh, when you get home she’s going to rip you a new one!” and I pitched forward helplessly with the instinctive laughter that comes with the knowledge of a transfer of pure truth. And then, conspiratorially, he leaned in and said in a low voice “Did you see those big titties on the cheerleaders?” and I responded with “Shept!” (The imperative of “to derive satisfaction”) and it appeared that he didn’t hear what I’d said.

The game progressed and it became increasingly compelling. And it seemed to send my new friend to new heights. He began throwing almonds at Alcohol Enforcement and when they’d deduced who’d done it, with a broad grin he’d point at his eyes, and then theirs, and then back to his, and amazingly, they’d return the smile. Once the AE folks had moved on he began yelling at a couple in their fifties who’d made the mistake of wearing Packers jerseys. “We’re going to kick you and your wife’s asses!” he bellowed.

Suddenly, a new member of their group showed up. He was agitated and an animated conversation ensued. From my seat, I only got one side of the conversation: “Where is he?” “You did what?” “Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” After a bit of this, my new friend turned to me and said “He says he just beat up his best friend and now his best friend is in jail, “ and he chuckled.  He grinned and, mocking his friend, said, “’I love you man, but you crossed the line!’” raising his fingers in quotes at the end of the sentence.

A little time elapsed and after a shuffle of my neighbors I found myself next to the new member of their group. He was highly intoxicated and wearing glasses, which always seems like a dubious choice for violent drunks. We formed a good rapport – our blue/green blood made us brothers in spirit, although his intoxication made him almost verbally incomprehensible – via fist bumps and hand gestures. During a rare moment of clarity, he confided in me through a slurred tongue, “We’re gon’ beat these motherfuckers” and I heartily agreed by responding “Farkaktah Packers” (“Shitty Packers”) and a followed up with an Indian war cry like the kind you see in John Wayne movies. Reviewing the events today, you may be impressed with my chutzpah, but I could feel the connection – these were, for the moment, “my people”.

And then the game looked as if we would lose. I shook hands with my new friends as they prepared to leave and thanked them for the almonds and, as they left, they approached each of the Packer fans that they’d vigorously insulted and offered their congratulations, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief and pretended that they knew it was all in fun all along.

Oh yeah, and I’m getting closer to the answer.

Guest post from DrLaura: "Home on the shootin' range"

Caller #1: “Hi DrLaura. I’ve got something I need to get off my chest.”

DrLaura: “All right – let’s hear it.”

Caller #1: “Well, it’s just that I’ve got this one friend that is relentlessly condescending. He always lords it over me about how his dad was the only tax attorney in California north of San Francisco when he was growing up. He won’t stop hounding me about how the Boy Scouts made him the man he is today. And he drives me crazy gloating over his small white compact car with an ‘e’ on the trunk that he bought from Enterprise Rent-A-Car – he calls it ‘The Enterprise’ while looking down his nose at me!”

DrLaura: “Pardon me, but you are a pussy! Do me a favor: next time you see him, pretend like you are a barbarian and ask him ‘What’s in your wallet?’ Producer, get rid of this guy and please tell me you’ve got something better on line 2!”

Caller #2: “Hi DrLaura – first time, long time.”

DrLaura: “Glad to hear it. What have you got?”

Caller #2: “Well, I had an experience today that’s left me shaken. You see, at my gym, we have these unisex shower rooms, and after patiently waiting my turn for what felt like for forever, one of the shower room doors finally opened and a single smiling man came out, followed by three women!”

DrLaura: “Well, did you ask them if they were Mormons? Jesus, if I have to listen to any more idiots today I am going to fire you, producer! You’d better have something better for me on line 3, or this is your last show!”

Caller #3: “Hi DrLaura! I wanted to talk about a recent experience I had with some friends.”

DrLaura: “I’m looking for some good news – bring it, beyotch!”

Caller #3: “As a token of their gratitude, our ladyfriends arranged a surprise outing for me and my buddies at the shooting range, to ‘give us a chance to swing our dicks around.’ I’d never gone before, and when we walked in I was impressed with the selection of guns at our disposal: small caliber pistols, huge ‘Dirty Harry’ revolvers, and military rifles with silencers, if you needed to practice with those.

The man behind the counter gave us some paperwork to fill out where we initialed that they weren’t responsible for anything. And then he asked if everyone had shot before. I said ‘I haven’t,’ and he nodded and then didn’t say anything else about it.

Since we were all fans of police programs and Palestinian gunmen, we picked out a Glock 9 mm and an AR-15 rifle, and as we entered the inner sanctum of the range our cashier called out, ‘Make sure you have the ear protection on – it gets loud fast!’ It had sounded like ladyfingers going off from out in the lobby, but it was clear that once we got inside he was totally right.

The range was partitioned into doorway-sized lanes, each with a small shelf mounted about waist-high in the opening. At the first lane, our eyes were drawn to a pair of tight pink jeans worn by a woman firing deafening rounds at short intervals. And this is when the democratic nature of the activity first began to dawn on me: In the next lane, there was a small Filipino woman blasting away, and a little further down a grandfather was showing his ten-year-old grandchildren how to exercise their Second Amendment rights.

A man even further down had chosen the big, big .44 Magnum, and it felt like the most powerful fireworks (the percussive ones with a small flash and huge boom) I’d ever seen, only as if they were ten feet away.  Almost as amazing to me was the fact that when it was fired it looked like a flamethrower.”

DrLaura: “Did he have ass-less chaps on?”

Caller #3: “I was too mesmerized by the gun to notice! Anyway, one of the guys in our group had spent part of his upbringing in Montana and he was experienced with guns and hunting. In fact, he had filled in the details about other aspects of the ‘frontier culture’, like the justice meted out by his brother (a former offensive lineman for the New York Giants) who, after being scolded by his father, snuck off and secretly shat in his father’s cowboy boot. My friend projected a more refined persona and suggested this kind of rough living was in his past, but when we retrieved the targets, despite his ‘I’ll just have a glass of Perrier’ attitude, I was convinced that he’d shot a winking smiley face emoticon into the zombie Osama bin Laden printed on the paper.”

DrLaura: “What virility! And I love a man of mystery – like Fabio!”

Caller #3: “Yes, yes, and it was soon my turn, and I received lots of instructions on how to load the magazine and hold the gun. Just before I pulled the trigger I noted that this was a seminal moment in my experiences – something I would remember forever. I took a deep breath and squeezed. Despite the small kick of the Glock, I instantly felt a rush of endorphins and adrenaline, as if I had been on a 24-hour Fox News bender: it was exhilarating and fundamentally Right (and satisfying, despite the fact that I couldn’t tell if any of my bullets actually touched the paper target).

Another of my shooting buddies, a Dane and a splendid raconteur, regaled me with stories about about other times he’d gone shooting in Denmark when he was much younger. One time, he and a friend had been practicing their drinking and had gotten thoroughly soused, only to decide to 'blast the shit' out of the friend’s grandfather’s barn. I was laughing, but even despite his impressive tolerance, I was glad we were all sober at the range.”

DrLaura: “Does he have one of those sexy ‘O’s with a line through it’ in his name?”

Caller #3: “I’ve never thought about that! Anyway, during a break in the action I texted a friend to follow up on a conversation we’d had earlier and casually boasted that I was out shooting. He works in Arkansas with a Large Retailer, and during our previous exchange we’d been talking on the phone while he was engaged with The Client and hadn’t been at liberty to talk, so our follow up was to decide on a ‘safe word/phrase’ to use when in front of the customer (we settled on ‘white power’). In response to my latest exploits he asked if we were out celebrating the Paul Ryan VP announcement.

At some point it was proposed that we have an accuracy competition and my limitations soon became clear. ‘Did you shoot one of the targets in the adjacent lane?’ one of them teased. This got my dander up and I shouted back, ‘I may not have good aim but I shoot a lot of bullets!’ to peals of laughter. ‘Hey  - check this out!’ one of my friends beckoned to me. He pointed to the ceiling just above the shelf in our lane, and, sure enough, there were many, many bullet holes from shots that had gone almost straight up, and I felt better about my aim.

On the other hand, I realized two things at that point: (a) if anyone at the range lost their mind while we were there, we were all dead, and (b) the broad cross-section of society enjoying the facility suggested that I should be far less aggressive while driving.”

DrLaura: “What a ‘sensitive’ man! The girls set you up with a good dick-swinging, and all you can do is whinge about it? Next time someone insults your shooting, shout ‘white power’ at the top of your lungs!”

Caller #3: “Great advice – thanks! OK – so after 2 hours and a hundred-plus bullets later, we headed back to the safety of the ranch for some refreshments and post-shooting discussion. Again, my Danish friend rose to the occasion. He told me about the obligatory military service that he’d performed: He’d been on a ship where, after performing the relevant calculations, they’d determined that during months at sea, the average consumption for each the sailors was eleven beers… A DAY! At one point, they’d had some America’s finest Navy Seals aboard to visit the unofficial bar. It soon became clear that our boys had been training in other areas, as the Danes dispatched of them in no time.”

DrLaura: “Hmmm… Are his biceps bigger than Fabio’s?”

Caller #3: “I’m not sure – is Fabio that guy on the Harlequin covers? But let me tell you, DrLaura, it was truly a men’s event. For example, on my way back to the kitchen to get another beer, I noticed that one of my shooting buddies, a dignified Norwegian (who, I later learned, possessed the remarkable skill of passing out while sitting up and, even more impressively, awakening at regular intervals just long enough to propose a toast), was in the bathroom peeing with the door open.

His actions reminded me that I needed to go to the bathroom too, so I descended to the lower level in search of a vacancy, but as I was on my way down the stairs my phone began to ring. It was from a business associate that I’d not met in person but had always been impressed with on the phone, both because of the things he said and his Barry White-like baritone delivery. Perhaps against my better judgment, I chose to answer the phone rather than let the call go to voicemail. ‘Hey man,’ he said, ‘I’ve got great news – we’re moving closer to a deal.’

Through the phone, I could hear loud music and women’s voices in the background, and I thought I was hearing the sounds of air being sucked through straws. As the women giggled I visualized their breasts covered in cocaine, as if in a movie from the late eighties before cops break in and someone like Scarface makes his introduction to his ‘leetle fren’”.

DrLaura: “Does your associate have an ‘I love cops’ bumper sticker on his car?”

                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Caller #3: “I don’t know – I’ve never even seen him in person, let alone his car! My associate said, ‘There’s someone I really need you to talk to – hold on,’ and the music grew louder, so I decided to go ahead and relieve myself. Mid-stream, a woman’s voice came on the phone: ‘Hey, I think we can do some business together,’ she asserted in a businesslike fashion, and she told me the details as I buttoned my fly. ‘Sounds great,’ I replied, gathering my wits, and then meekly asked ‘Can you give my associate your information?’ and she tersely said ‘Sure’ and was gone, and my wild imaginings of RPG launchers and cocaine disappeared into the mist.

There’s more, DrLaura, but I think you know where I’m going with this: What did she mean by ‘Sure’? Did I let the shooting and beer cloud my judgment? Am I doomed?”

DrLaura: “Hell, I have no idea, but I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun – what a wonderfully told story! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, producer!”

(Curtain)

Dispatch from London

During my last trip to London, I was reminded of the wisdom of the words spoken by John Travolta’s character Vincent Vega in the film Pulp Fiction: "It's the little things that make Europe different. I mean they got the same shit over there as we got here, but it’s just a little different." For example, it was hard to get our hands on napkins, which was just as well as garbage cans turned out to be a sort of Scarlet Pimpernel: virtually impossible to find, no matter how hard you looked. And for anyone with romantic notions about Buckingham Palace, note the following: There are weeds in the lawn! If you’re having a hard time imagining this, I don’t blame you – if someone had told me the truth before I’d seen it with my own eyes, I’d have more easily imagined Dolly Parton with acorn-sized breasts.

The money is a little different too. I had heard that London was expensive, but, as silly as it sounds, the pain is somewhat masked by conducting transactions in the local “funny money”, the British pound sterling. If you’re using cash, all of it has the same person on it (Queen Elizabeth II), subconsciously reducing the differentiation between a one-pound note and a twenty as you’re paying through the nose with the latter. Also, things cost half-again as much in dollars, so if you’re not doing the calculation all the time, you can feel one-third better than you ought to. This can have dire consequences, even if delayed, as you’ll soon see.

One night, dining out at a downscale pizza joint near the center of town, we ordered four small personal pizzas and two warm beers. During the meal, I noticed that a couple of men who’d sat down at an adjacent table were vigorously casting glances my way. At first, I thought it was because they were looking at something behind me, but when I turned I saw we were seated in front of a bare wall, so then I assumed it was because we were a little rummy from our trans-Atlantic flight and thus noisier than London norms permit. But eventually the waiter came by and served them a single dessert, which they shared, and the riddle of the glances (as well as that of their skin-tight jeans and matching pink shirts) was solved.

However, this unrequited sexual tension left me even more dazed than just the jet lag, which by itself would have easily been an adequate distraction from the yet-unidentified but oncoming financial crisis. But to make matters worse, in an effort to soothe the Maître d’ and the rest of the patrons for the nuisance of our perceived unruly behavior, my traveling companions had quit the restaurant, leaving me with one credit card with a notoriously suspect magnetic stripe, which of course failed. I said to the waiter that I’d be right back and that this happened all the time, but, to ease his concerns, I left my jacket on the chair, hoping not to return with the good credit card only to find my jacket being cradled in the arms of a pink-shirted man from the adjacent table. Fortunately, when I came back my jacket had remained in its place and everything was quickly resolved without incident, but I barely looked at the total as I scribbled my signature and pocketed the receipt.

Of course, this was just a delaying of the inevitable, which came the following day when we were touring Westminster Abbey. I pulled out the receipt while standing in the nave and, sure enough, I was overcome with the shock of paying $120 for four small cheese pizzas and two warm beers. “God damn it!” I exclaimed, to the horror of one of my traveling companions and more than a few of the pilgrims, whose glares were instantly trained on me.

As if in The Matrix, time slowed to a near-halt as unspoken bullets of disapproval converged on me. And as they did, the more primitive part of my brain sought shelter by nudging my memory neurons. I thought of a news program that we’d seen upon our arrival in London that profiled a star on the current Italian soccer team, Mario Balotelli. It was of great interest to the locals – Team Italy was playing in the finals of the UEFA Euro 2012 (an important soccer event that happens once every four years that I’d never heard of) – but my salvation was not to lie in the game, but rather in inspiration provided by the earlier off-field actions of the star. I had learned that within days of joining an English professional soccer team, Balotelli was involved in a car crash. He was carrying £5000 cash at the time – and that when a police officer asked why he had such a large sum of money he replied, "Because I am rich."

Inspired by his quick thinking, I in turn quickly came to my senses and, feigning a look of horror, looked behind me as if I were searching for whoever might be the heathen stupid enough to utter the unholy words. At the same time I pushed forward through the crush of humanity (packed in tightly to maximize profit made from charging an entrance fee of $25/person), pressing onward until I’d moved beyond the collective consciousness of the group that had heard me. And when I’d finally reached the safety of anonymity, I let a sigh of relief go, congratulating myself on my quick thinking and the fact that at least I hadn’t done it in the Vatican…