Sorry, I'm not available...

...to take your call at this web site. I've moved. So you can either leave a message at the tone, or hit me up at my new spot: www.thewastebasket.com

Bad news and good news

Let's start with the bad news, friends. Check out this letter I received a couple of days ago.

To rmaese
From Blogger admin

Hello, valued Blogger user. We'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for your dedicated service with Blogger and Blogspot. You've been a valued member of our community. However, our legal department has spent the past 5 weeks investigating a series of allegations made against you (rmaese) and your Blogspot site (Through Stained Glass We Gaze). It has come to our attention that you're not exactly an amateur. Blogger and Blogspot prides themselves in providing forums for amateur writers, thinkers and bathroom pundits. You, sir, are clearly no amateur. It is with only a bit of regret that we must ask you to cease and desist all publication on your Blogspot site (Through Stained Glass We Gaze). Your attention to this matter is appreciated.

Can you believe that? I know, I know -- I was shocked, too. I had my legal department review the letter and there's basically nothing I can do about it. But that leads us to the good news. Blogger's fascist tactics actually coincide with a big announcement that we've been working on. With the help of my talented and slightly retarded brother, Joey, I am very pleased to unveil a whole new brand of hotness that you were scared to even dream about. Starting this week, I will be posting to a new web site called thewastebasket.com. It's going to be like this blog site, but like 100,000 times better. I'm going to step up my game, and in turn, I'm asking each of you to step up your game. So give it a look, give us a bookmark and let's enjoy the new home.

Again, the site is www.thewastebasket.com.

I'll see you there.

Missing the unreal

To the producers of "The Real World"

Hello. My name is Rick. I don't watch a whole lot of television, but I've been watching your show since the start. I'm the generation that defined my own adolescent reality based on the norms and characters you put forth. As you might recall, I began sending letters to you about three years ago, most of them coming during the tawdry "Las Vegas" season. I had grown quite unhappy with the choice of cast members in recent years. It seemed like MTV posted ads in alt-weeklies across the country for a modeling showcase, then selected seven pretty people and threw them in a ridiculous house. I was upset because suddenly, I felt like I couldn't relate to the Real World and its Abercrombie & Fitch cast. Anyhow, today I'm writing to tell you that I'm sorry about all the complaining.

Yesterday, I watched the first episode of the new season, set in "Key West." Wait, keep reading. I'm not one of those who's writing because you foolishly chose to put a self-concious anorexic woman in your perverted little puppet-theater. While I'm not doing back flips over that decision (full disclosure: I can't do a backflip), that's not what upset me about the new season. I can't believe you all took my advice -- are you idiots? What an average-looking cast this year. There's not a single girl that I'd even give a second look to in a bar. I used to watch the show and feel bad because they made me feel so, uhm, normal. But I was watching the new season and just felt bad for these cast members. As much as I detested the genetically-modified nature of recent seasons, we've all grown accustomed to a certain societal role of "The Real World." It should represent the ideal, define the hip and put forth a generational attitude. It should give us something to collectively strive for in our daily lives, not make us feel as though we're already ahead of the curve, that we're already pretty and smart and cutting edge.

Before they were a bunch of carefully-chiseled mannequins. Now it's just a bunch that was scooped up from the bus stop and thrown in a house. I thought that's what I wanted. I thought it would make the show "real." And now I've come to find out that I never wanted real. I deal with the real every day of my life. I drive by the bus stops, I pump gas, I encounter unattractive people. I realize now that when I turn on the TV, I want something different. We're all escapists and the TV is the easiest portal to get-away. MTV, you failed us. We want our unreality back.

Italia unpack

I know we're all very eager to get both feet firmly into the Now, but I gotta unpack a few things before we move forward, k? We're datelined Orlando right now, and yes, my cell phone is working again. We ran into some slight complications when Germany refused to surrender my luggage. It was finally delivered by a young man driving a Ford Taurus at 2 a.m. last night. No joke. I don't like feeling disconnected to the world, even though I long for it. It's very uneasy. Kind of like walking up a rocky hill, where you're just waiting to fall.

I'm still adjusting to life in the USA. The language barrier is proving a bit more difficult than I anticipated. People look at me funny when I use the three Italian words that I picked up over the past three weeks (on average, I learned one word a week). And I keep thinking Dick Cheney is gonna pop out from behind a bush and start firing away. But it's mostly OK.

The last few days in Italy were nice. Let's review just a bit and I promise we'll be posting more regularly and we can start talking about issues and trends and news more on the regular.


A couple of nights before I left town, I cut out of work at about midnightish and went with some friends to the "Holland House," kind of a gathering place for Dutch athletes sponsored by their host nation. It was a cross between a frat party and a rave, if you throw in the 75-foot ice rink. It was very surreal. Most of the people were wear clad in orange (Wheaties-bos orange, to be exact) and there was generally a friendly vibe moving from corner to corner. We danced, we watched people ice skate and studied the Dutch curling team. Theory proposed by Steinberg of the Post: the Dutch curlers are about as legit as microwavable ice cream (ok, those weren't his exact words).


There was no Duth curling team competing in these Olympics. And when Steinberg presented them with a printed out rosters of the top Holland curlers, they had to acknowledge that their names were nowhere to be seen. So what gives? These Dutch curlers had been all-stars at the Games, gaining mention in reputable publications like the Chicago Tribune and the Wall Street Journal. They were at parties, competitions and even news conferences. They showed up everywhere wearing the same matching T-shirts, and taking photos of each other kissing random girls. It was basically the most brilliant thing about the Olympics.

Yes, there are several things that I'll remember about ol Italia, but maybe none moreso than the gelato.


Check out that picture. The people are crowded around a tiny window. There's no order, no line. It's complete chaos. You can picture this gelato shop in the middle of a Mad Max movie. And this exact same scene takes place every 15 feet all across Turin where the people go absolutely bonkers for gelato. It's their crack. And I don't mean that it's dangerous (though it's certainly addictive); I call it crack because of the way people act.

When there's a gelato window, there's no semblance of civility. I saw an 74-year-old man from Milan fashion his walking stick into a shank and stab a 7-year-old kid because he wanted to be 2 feet closer to his sweet, sweet pistachio nut. These people are crazy when it comes to gelato.


I'll also remember all the buildings -- and yet I won't remember a single one. That's because these foreign countries with their centuries of history have way too many important buildings. And here's the other thing you need to know -- every one of them is a church. No joke. That building pictures above, for example: I didn't write down the name it, and I can't specifically recall snapping the photo. But I'm 100 percent that it's some type of church. Apparently, that's all they built until the 20th century: churches and gelato stands.


The people were nice and the food was good. I'll take that back with me. In fact, the people were too nice and the food was too good. The Italianse -- they were more helpful than I liked. They usually didn't have the information to back up the advice and directions they were giving. So you'd end up on a goose chase and before you know it, you're in Prague... all cuz you were looking for a bathroom.


And the food... by my estimate, I've gained 28 pounds. I walk and I can actually see my feet denting the earth. While this might seem like a good thing because I could write a cool "Footprints" poem like that one in hanging in your aunt's living room, if you saw me, you'd know it was bad.

Also, the photo taken above was from a restaurant. How appetizing is it to look at that while you're trying to get your chow on? Also, I eat truffles now, so act like ya know.


We had a good run, though, me and ol Italia. I don't really remember much of it, except of course for those all-night advertisements for 1-900 numbers. True story: I woke up one morning with just the telephone receiver lying next to my head. Apparently I'd fallen asleep and forgot to hang up the phone (?). I woke up the next day fairly convinced that I'd called one of those numbers. But my phone bill didn't reflect it, so maybe I'd just called Papa John's or something.


So I said good-bye to my housing village (above) on Monday morning. It was called Mortara, unofficially we called it "Mortara: the Village of Death." I then sat on an airplane for 18 days before landing in the U.S. without my luggage.

By now, a couple days have passed, and I'm feeling more adjusted. There's so much I want to discuss, and I finally have the energy to put it out there for you. (For example: Now we're hearing that Bush knew about the dangers posed by Katrina? Hmmm... for a president who knows very little, he sure knows quite a bit, huh.)

Arrivederci

Friends, enemies and dearhearts,

I'm bouncing from Italia in a couple of hours. I have a few things to share with you. I just wish I had the time to share them. Rest assured, we'll debrief all of this in a couple of days. Just wanted to drop you a line to say that I'm looking forward to seeing everyone in B-more, O-town and ABQ in the couple of weeks. And just a heads-up, I kiss on both cheeks now. (You all know what I'm talking about.)


Ciao

Field trip Friday

If I was to be totally honest, I didn't know exactly what to expect. I knew I was excited. I knew I was at least a tiny bit spooked. And I knew I'd enjoyed saying over the past few days, "Oh, by the way, I can't do dinner on Friday because I'm going to the Gates of Hell.

I'd booked a tour guide a few days ago. For 35 Euro, she was mine for two hours and what a wealth of information. She knew what I wanted: I needed to know about Turin's long history with magic. We're talking good, we're talking bad. Because this city has both. There are supposedly two triangles, decided by meridian lines and energy forces. There's a white triangle and a black one. Turin is amazingly a point in both. (White also includes Prague and Leon and Black includes London and San Francisco.)

I met my tour guide -- her name is Harinella -- at the Piazza Statuto. While I waited for her, I grabbed a capuccino and stared at the giant statue in front of me. It's at least 50 feet tall, and I found it curious, to say the least. Honestly, I really didn't know how I felt about it.

You can't really tell from these photos, but the statues form a pyramid. At the very top is a dark angel -- Lucifer. He has a pentagram atop his head and his hand is positioned in such a way that he's pushing the other angels down.

The scene was perfect. It had been a terribly ugly day today. Not even gray, it was a dark gray. And by time I'd approached the statue and looked for my tour guide, it was raining. As we moved throughout the city, the rain never stopped. The neon lights -- "Cafe" and "Cafeterria" and "Bar" -- reflected beautifully off the asphalt and the puddles of water.

You want to know more about Turin? Nietzche came here and wrote the words, "God is dead." Nostradamus came here and wrote, "I lived here where paradise and hell meet together."

"You can believe this if you want," Harinella told me. "Even if you choose not to, you must know that Torino is a city of many coincidences. It is interesting, yes?"

She's also call Turin a "city of contrasts" and a "city of ironies." Which I liked.

Harinella took me around town. We ducked in and out of plazas and city blocks, and she told me all about the free masons. She pointed up at the huge banks and noted how almost all of them had devil or demon statues decorating the facade.

I also saw the most elaborate door I've ever seen. Above is the knocker. It's the doorway to a bank. Harinella said that there are more than 300 devils around town.

The devil pictured above is also on a bank and it's right across the street from where an archbishop lived. This is what he saw every morning when he opened his window and there was nothing he could do about it.

We kept walking and she told me fantastic stories. She pointed out statues and sculptures and churches. Of course we went by the Holy Shroud, the fabled cloth that wrapped around Christ. And then we returned to Piazza Statuto, back to the dark angel presiding over the others.

Harinella explained that this land is like a "carpet of bodies," a place where executions and battles took place. She explained that right in front of the dark angel is considered the Gates to Hell. She pointed downward and paused, as if to pay reverence.

Yes, a manhole cover. But it sure seemed spookier when I was there. I listened closely, thinking I'd hear the faint screams of ex-girlfriends, high school teachers and childhood bullies. I heard something, but I'm not sure it was them. It was still dark and the rain was still falling. It was definitely an eerie mood.

"Harinella, do you really believe in all this stuff you've told me over the past two hours?" I asked, half-believing most of it.

"Well," she paused. "No. I guess it's another one of the many ironies. The agency would probably want me to say 'Yes' to this question. They make me wear black. For atmosphere, they say. But no, not me. Many other people, yes."

It's a contest, son!

Just got back from a taxi ride with a couple of players from the U.S. women's hockey team. (Yes, that's how pathetic I am: Name-dropping chick hockey players you haven't even heard of.) And we all agreed that the motto of these Olympics is a bit lame. All around town, we see the same phrase plastered on signs everywhere: "Passion is here." I'm not gonna lie to you (because we all know that I wouldn't do that), I'm gonna remember Turin more for the cheese than the passion.

So, I'd like to come up with a new motto for these Winter Olympics, and I think you should help. If you don't know anything about the Olympics, here's all you need know to make the motto: It's in Italy, it's cold, it's a series of athletic competitions. I'll give you a couple of my own motto suggestions, but I'm sure you could do much better.

Oh, and here's the best part. I have a special prize for the best motto. I got a lot of positive feedback about my bathhouse trip, and unfortunately I don't think I'm going to be able to satisfy all those requests for a photo of me in the paper G-string. However, the person who comes up with the best motto will win the paper G-string that I'm bringing home!!! Here's a photo to whet your appetite and encourage you:


Don't use these. These are mine (though I've ruled myself ineligible from winning, so you still have a chance).

"Turin: You shoulda went to Torino instead!"
"Home of the Spagehitti-O-lympics"
"Go around" (this is the direction given to get anywhere you want to go)
"You're early -- the Special Olympics are in two weeks"
"You want cheese on top?"
"No more wine for you. We cut you off"
"No, you're shaped like a boot"

Funny things foreigners say...

ME: Do you all know about 'Saturday Night Live' where you're from?
FOREIGNER: I'm Israeli, not retarded.