Wilson plays Henry Poole, who is buying a house in a quiet California neighborhood.  He doesn’t want to haggle over the price, have any repairs done, or anything else.  He simply wants to buy the house, move in, and be left alone.  As he tells the real estate agent (Cheryl Hines), “I won’t be living here that long.”

Like Finbar McBride in “The Station Agent,” Henry just wants to be left alone.  Unless you learned it from the trailers, the reasons for his melancholy state and desire for solitude are revealed to us bit by bit.  But solitude is the one thing Henry is not permitted.  On one side of his house is a troubles child who does not speak, and her mother (Radha Mitchell).  Millie, the daughter, likes to tape record the conversations that take place in Henry’s yard.  Henry clearly is attracted to Millie’s mother, but he is not willing to pursue the relationship.

The brunt of the activity, however, comes from his neighbor on the other side of his house, Esperanza (Adriana Barraza).  A close friend of the former owner, Esperanza discovers what she believes is the face of Jesus in a water stain left in the stucco job on the side of Henry’s house.  She invites over the local Catholic priest (George Lopez) and soon has a number of believers invading Henry’s yard.  Aside from the interruptions, Henry is enraged by the blind faith of the group.  “Your hope will not save you!” he yells.

Overall the film has some laughs, some drama, and some lessons.  It also has some insightful comments on the way we think, the way we validate our own beliefs by having others believe them, and the human desire to fix the present by reliving the past.  As I said, Henry Poole is not a terrific or important film.  But it’s decent entertainment.

Major players in the film, set in Warsaw, Indiana, are Jake (the geeky Band nerd); Hannah (the rebel/artsy girl who feels completely out of place); Colin (the jock); and Megan (the class Princess).  There are other teenagers who make there way in and out as minor players, but those four are the center of the action.  Amazingly, while no teenager is one-dimensional, all of them fall generally into the stereotypical categories you might expect.  But, as in The Breakfast Club, each deals with their own pressures, their own insecurities, and their own demons.

Hannah hates Indiana, and dreams of going to film school in San Francisco.  But she is terrified of developing the mental illnesses her mother suffers from, and she’s basically living on her own, without a solid support system.  Jake can’t find a girl, and feels utterly insecure and beaten-down.  As he puts it, he “sucks at life” and is looking for a “sock to be paired with.”  He has terrible acne, is short, and spends most of his time playing video games.  Colin cannot afford college, so he needs to shine on the basketball court and get a scholarship.  Otherwise, its probably the army for him.  And Megan constantly tries to derive power over, and support from, her circle of friends, while agonizing over whether she’ll get into Notre Dame (where her father and all but one sibling attended college).

There are many sweet moments in the film, and some which leave you scratching your head wondering if these teenagers will look back at their actions in shame.  To those of us who grew up in a different time, the lack of real connections between most of these kids is frightening.  They break up by text message, or sit and text message other romantic interests right in front of their boyfriends and girlfriends.  When one girl sends her boyfriend a topless photo, it quickly is seen on every area cell phone, and eventually on its own web site.  Yet later in the film, that same poor girl is sitting happily at a table with the girls who distributed it.  Everything means everything, and yet nothing means anything. 

American Teen has gotten rave reviews, and I’m happy to join in the group of those who thoroughly enjoyed the film.  Go see it.

Judged on that basis – as an episode from the series – it is middle-of-the-road.  But as a feature-length movie, it doesn’t hold up all that well.  I wouldn’t classify it as a failure; it just isn’t that good.  No longer with the FBI, Scully (Gillian Anderson) now works as a doctor, while Mulder (David Duchovny) lives in solitude, a bearded recluse who still clips articles from newspapers and tacks them to his walls.  When an FBI agent goes missing, and a psychic pedophile former priest is somehow able to supply the FBI with information, the Bureau approaches Scully to ask her for help in getting Mulder to assist on the case.  Exactly why Mulder is required is never fully explained…the typical “ignore the phony psychic” company line at the FBI is just a bit too predictable. 

Eventually the plot bogs down into a combination of religious conviction, stem-cell experimentation, and black-market organ donation.  The once razor-sharp Mulder/Scully chemistry has dulled quite a bit over the years, and those unfamiliar with the last few seasons of the series may have unanswered questions about where their relationship is now, and how far it progressed in the past.

Despite all of these misgivings, I wasn’t completely disappointed by the movie.  Perhaps it was just a recognition that I don’t seem to be properly wired for most of the new releases these days.  Comparing I Want to Believe to the coming attractions I had to sit through beforehand, aside from the upcoming Coen Brothers film (with George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Francis McDormand) I’d rather sit through this X-Files film again than see any of them for the first time.  But that is less a recommendation of The X-Files as it is a condemnation of Hollywood.

There are a few which stick out as more memorable than the others.  One would be the time when my father was working in Chicago and had been admitted to the hospital with an unknown illness (later to be diagnosed as both hepatitis and diabetes).   I came home from school and was told by a neighbor that mom was “in the hospital.”  For the next 10 days or so, the Kent children basically were on our own – with some occasional outside assistance from the neighborhood.  Quite a few classic memories took place over those 10 days.  But those are stories for another day. 

Instead, in this particular instance, my father was home taking care of the six of us the best he could.  He was still working 50 hours a week or more, plus commuting into New York City.  Mom had been “in the hospital” for a week or so, and when the weekend rolled around, he decided he’d go visit her and bring the children with him.  As I recall, Paul (the oldest) has some prior obligation, or else he simply didn’t want to go.  And I think the hospital would only permit one child to visit at a time.  Not wanting to leave us at home alone, Dad figured him and my youngest brother Jon would go to the hospital, and in the meantime he’d drop the rest of us off at a nearby movie theater to see Superman, which had been out for a while by then.  In my childhood eyes, it seemed like we were in some major city such as New York, but I have a sneaking suspicion with was simply a more urban section of Danbury, Connecticut.

Left to our own devices, it was common practice to search the house for whatever food was available.   Treasure hunts in the pantry usually resulted in unsuccessful experiments (learning that food items such as baker’s chocolate or dry flour were not very edible on their own), but sometimes you’d stumble on some old cookies, cereal which wasn’t stale, or some other prize.  It was through hunts like this that I developed the habit of eating brown sugar by the spoonful out of the box.  Eventually I learned to take the entire box to my room and keep it there.  Molasses was another source of sustenance, by the spoonful or poured over anything readily available.  Bread was generally moldy, crammed into the metal bread box with all of the other moldy loaves until nothing else could be packed in there (why it never occurred to any of us to throw the moldy bread away, I have no idea).  In the freezer you might find a frozen waffle or frozen pancake – sort of like winning on a scratch-off lottery ticket.  Old ice cream of a less popular flavor, or some sherbet with serious freezer burn, was usually around.  Eggs and milk were best avoided, unless they were of a recent vintage; better luck was usually found with processed cheese slices, as they did not age quite so fast.  If the cheese was old, you could break off the dried edges and just eat the center portion.  Cans of soup were rare, but powdered Lipton’s soup mix (Giggle Noodle being the favorite) came in handy, and had eternal shelf life.

On this particular morning, I think I went without breakfast altogether.  I figured we’d be given a couple of bucks for popcorn, and with any luck Dad would stop at McDonald’s on the way home (my brother Andy and myself could each put away five of the single-patty hamburgers without a problem, when given the opportunity).    My youngest sister Allison, however, seemed particularly hungry on this morning, and found herself an orange can of salt-free dry peanuts in the pantry.  Somehow she managed to consume the entire unce can, stuffing it into her three-year-old’s stomach.  The rest of the family made do with what they could find, and then we dressed in near-clean clothes and prepared for the trip to the hospital.

We climbed into Dad’s Dodge Aries-K and started off.  This was a new car for him, and in particular I though the plush red interior looked (and felt) quite luxurious.  For all I know it could have been a used junker, but I thought it was a very beautiful automobile.  There was the typical squabbling in the car on the way, but in general we all seemed rather subdued.  Looking back (and using childhood photos as a guide), I can only imagine what a sight we were to “normal people”, with mussed stringy hair, mismatched clothes, and dirty faces.  But for us it was just another day, more exciting than most.

Dad dropped us off at the theater, buying us tickets and having the usher bring us inside.  At the last minute he gave Andy – the oldest of us at the movies – the phone number of the hospital, in case of an emergency.  Then Dad and Jon left, leaving myself, Andy, Allison, and Antonia there to enjoy the show.  At the time, Superman was regarded as a terrific movie, and I really liked it.  The parts in the beginning with Marlon Brando were boring, but once Christopher Reeve donned his Superman cape and started flying around, it was great fun. 

About halfway through, as Superman and Lois Lane are flying around in the evening together, Allison announced that her stomach hurt.  We were sitting in the front row of the theater, but as this was an early weekend matinee of a film that had been out for some time, I think there were only five or ten other patrons scattered throughout the other rows.  We shushed Allison and tried to go on watching the action on the screen, but her squirming and moaning became a distraction. 

Suddenly her entire body tensed up and her mouth opened wide.  Like something out of The Exorcist, a steady stream of vomit spewed from her head and landed three feet away on the cinema floor.  Of course, some of it wound up on her clothes;   the smell from this evil brew of apple juice, peanuts, and stomach acid was quite something to experience.  Incredibly, once Allison stopped crying, we remained in our seats to watch more of the movie.  But one of the other patrons had alerted the usher, who herded us out to the lobby and demanded we arrange to get ourselves out of there before Mount Allison had another eruption.

Andy went to the phone booth and called the hospital.  Not yet a teenager, he nonetheless displayed the anger, intolerance, and impatience the Kent males have made famous in the decades that followed.  After some difficulty getting the payphone to accept his dime, he dialed and connected with the hospital.

“I need to be connected with Susan Kent’s room right away.  Her daughter is sick and needs to be picked up.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have a Mrs. Susan admitted here at this hospital.”

“Not Susan.  Kent!  Mrs. Kent!”

“Let me check.  No, we don’t have a Mrs. Lent here, I am sorry.”

“No!  Kent!  K-E-N-T.  K as in Kite, E as in Edward, N as in Nice, and T as in Timothy!”

“I’m sorry, I’m checking, but we don’t have a Mrs. Kite here.”

“Is there somebody else there I can speak to?  Somebody who understands English and isn’t a moron?”

Amazingly, they didn’t hang up on him for that remark, and after being switched to another operator, he managed to locate my mother and tell Dad about what happened.  Fifteen minutes later, he arrived, with Jon in tow.  The hospital visit had to be cut short.  We climbed into the car and headed home.

Along the way, however, another memorable scene played itself out.  Allison’s clothes had dried out a bit, but they still smelled awful, so we were driving with the windows open despite the shill in the air.  Allison, sitting in the back seat directly behind my father, announced that she was going to be sick again.  I looked at her, amazed; I couldn’t imagine there could be anything left in her stomach after she had left a gallon of toxic waste at the movie theater.  Unfortunately, we were on a busy road with no place to turn off, and no shoulder.  Besides, there was no time.  She was ready to blow. 

“No Allison, not in the car!” my father cried out.  I guess he realized from the stench on Allison’s clothes that if she erupted, the smell would never come out of the plus upholstery, to say nothing of the acidic stain it would leave.  So he did the only thing he could think of in that moment of panic.  Gripping the steering wheel with his knees, he twisted his body around, cupped his hands, and magically caught nearly every drop of her vomit, with the few drops he missed falling harmlessly onto her already-soiled clothes.  Twisting forward again, all in one fluid motion that had taken no more than four seconds, he shook the peanuts and stomach acid off of his hands out the open window.  The car was saved, Allison’s stomach was empty, and we went on home.  I felt kind of gypped, because we didn’t get to go to McDonald’s after all, and because it would be a few years before I was able to see the end of Superman.  But that didn’t matter.  How could the end of the movie be any more exciting then what I had just witnessed?

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Barbara is a former department store clerk who has married into the family, to Brooks (Stephen Dillane), who is going to inherit the estate.  From the very beginning we see how highly she values the social circles the family travels in.  While Brooks shows disdain for social trappings (and mentions feeling like a “monkey” for being scheduled to participate without consultation or approval), Barbara delights in them, and is constantly trying to manipulate one person or another into building a successful dinner or party.  Touched on only briefly is how Brooks’ grandfather was more interested in creating wealth and producing, while his father was the one who became bogged down in the world of European travels and glorified royalty.

Add to the mix their only child, Tony.  At first a spoiled momma’s boy, his burgeoning homosexuality drives his father away nearly as quickly as does his mother’s fragile mental state.  Eventually Brooks abandons the family in every way but financial, setting up house with a young Spanish woman who had originally been attracted to a teenaged Tony.  This crushes Barbara, more from the threat of losing her social standing than anything else.  Tony, meanwhile, continues to search for the fatherly approval he has never felt.

As the plot spirals downward into social taboos and insanity, we’re left feeling very little – if anything – for the family or its members.  By trying not to dig too deeply, Savage Grace misses its mark.

He was right about that.  I met some true characters in prison.  Some were absolute scumbags who would steal from their best friends.  Some were really nice guys.  Most, as you’d expect, fell somewhere in between.  But a select group was truly unforgettable.  I’ve introduced you to a few of them, like my first roommate…but there are a few more classic individuals which deserve honorable mention, if not their very own chapters.  So my next few essays will describe them one at a time.  I call this group my Unusual Suspects.

I’ll lead off with one of the oddest people I ever met in my life.  We’ll call him Rudy Silverton.  Rudy was a career criminal, although he preferred to refer to himself as an “outlaw.”  Well into his late 50’s, he’d spent the last decade or more behind bars after enjoying the high life as one of the nation’s premier marijuana smugglers and dealers during the 70’s.  He traveled extensively, spending a good deal of time in Europe and Southeast Asia.  Rudy’s tales of living next door to Mick Jagger, and the sexual perversion of 1980’s Bangkok were legendary within the prison.

Of course, simply having been some kind of anti-establishment drug dealer would not be enough to make my list of Unusual Suspects.  Rudy had a number of other unique traits.  Most obvious were his eating habits.  Rudy was very selective about what he ate from the mess hall, preferring to gorge on things like cornbread or fish, but avoiding many of the more popular dishes like chicken.  He ate all of his meals the same way: with a wet washcloth hanging from his neck like a bib, and with a pair of chopsticks that he had managed to procure at some earlier time during his incarceration.  By the way, that wet washcloth was the same one he blew his nose into during the day.  Very appetizing, don’t you think?

Rudy’s locker was stuffed with stolen or smuggled food.  Jars of wheat germ, spices, soy sauce, and horrible-smelling additives took up most of one shelf.  It was publically known that he had all this contraband, but the facility staff never tried to confiscate it.  I have always felt they preferred to look the other way simply to avoid having to deal with his other oddities.

My first experience with Rudy was when I got up to use the restroom at 3am and found him sprawled on the hallway floor, flailing and twisting around.  In my half-asleep state I thought I was dreaming.  Then, after shaking my head, I thought he was having a seizure or a heart attack.  It wasn’t until I got close that I could see he was practicing some sort of contortionist yoga moves…at three in the morning…in the dark.  I later learned he did this every morning, after the 3am bed check.  Some of the crab-like shapes he was able to bend himself into were straight out of a circus…or a freak show.  But that wasn’t the freakiest thing about him.

Rudy had one oddity even more drastic than those.  I’d heard rumors, but I chose not to believe them until I saw it with my own eyes.  You see, we didn’t have a lot of personal space in prison.  If you were drinking coffee or water or Tang you’d carry it around with you in a large plastic mug, complete with a lid to keep it warm or cold.  Everybody had one.  If you walked into the bathroom to use the urinal, for example, you’d leave it on top of the urinal, or on the sink counter next to you, relieve yourself, and pick it up again.  Simple enough.  So seeing somebody with a mug in the bathroom was not at all uncommon and no reason for alarm.

Because prison is such a dirty, germy place, you notice things.  Maybe more so in my case, since I worked as a plumber for my first year, and I was sensitive to how people used the bathroom.  Not flushing was a real pet peeve of mine.  Why the hell wouldn’t you flush the toilet or the urinal?  So one morning Rudy used the urinal next to me, and walked away without flushing, I was about to turn around and confront him…

…until I saw there was nothing in the urinal but clean water.  And that’s when I saw Rudy had his mug in his hand, and was putting the lid onto it.  But I didn’t remember him placing it on top of the urinal before relieving himself.  At that moment, I realized the rumors were true:

Rudy drank his first urine of the morning.

I never really asked for a full explanation from Rudy.  In conversations when the topic was lightly touched upon, I inferred that he “sterilized” it my microwaving it, or by mixing it with boiling water, or something.  And that it was always just his first urine of the day – no other.  I think he felt that was the one with the nutrients in it.  Rudy tried not to talk about it, for fear that if the staff learned about this particular quirk, he’d be sent to the hole, or a psychiatric unit, or who knows where.  But that never happened.  Rudy made it through his sentence through the Drug and Alcohol program, and back out into society, where he could eat with chopsticks or do yoga or drink his urine in privacy.

His freedom didn’t last very long, however, as Rudy’s “outlaw” tendencies continued to direct his actions.  The last I heard, he had been arrested for marijuana possession.  As the story went, he’d had a quantity in a box (with his name and address printed on it) hidden inside a storage locker.  The problem was, the locker was in a building adjacent to one which housed the offices of a local drug task force.  One of the agents walked by the lockers one day and recognized the unmistakable odor, and the rest was history. 

I hope he’s doing okay, because if nothing else he was a very funny and open person.  I just like to think he’s changed his eating and drinking habits.


(Watch for the next installment of The Unusual Suspects in a week or so).

I hung around my bunk for an hour or so, taking occasional walks through the halls and reading material on the bulletin board.  I had showered that morning at home, and didn’t have any toiletries to use or clean clothes to change into, so there wasn’t much else for me to do.  Around 3pm they had mail call, which was a bunch of inmates crammed into one of the larger TV room/Classrooms as a CO shouted out names.  I knew I wasn’t going to get any mail yet, but I watched anyway just to get the feel of how it worked, and to kill time.

Back in my bunk a bit later, I heard a CO shout “Stand Up!”  Everybody else stood and kept quiet, so I figured that’s what I was supposed to do too.  Sure, enough, this was my first encounter with the daily “Stand-Up Count.”  At this time every day, every inmate is to be counted and accounted for, standing in his living area.  The only exceptions are inmates who are working at their assigned job during that time, and they are also counted standing but by their work CO instead.  If the numbers don’t add up, they recount.  If they STILL don’t add up, they come through with their inmate books and do a true census, one inmate at a time, until they figure out who is missing.  If you’re not in your living area, or if you move from that area before the count is cleared, you could be in for a heap of trouble, ranging from sanctions and extra duty to going to the hole for who knows how long.  You don’t screw with a stand-up count.  There are other counts during the night, but they’re not stand-up.  But this count, once a day (with an extra stand-up count on weekends and holidays around 10:30am), is deadly serious with the staff.

Of course, it depends on the staff and the inmate.  Sometimes an inmate might be asleep, and if he doesn’t wake up and stand in time, he might get in trouble, or he might just get a warning of some kind.  You’d expect an inmate’s bunkmate would watch his back and get him up, but sometimes they hate each other, or sometimes the bunkmate is such a piece of crap that he won’t do anything to help ANYBODY.  But you just never knew.  One hard-ass CO was famous for severe punishment when somebody messed up his count.  He came through one day, and saw an inmate was sleeping in the top bunk.  He kicked the bed to wake him up, moving on with the count.  I assume he planned to come back and yank the inmate out afterward.  But this inmate woke with such a start that as he tried to climb down from the top bunk he lost his footing (there is no easy way to climb down) and fell face first onto the floor in a terrible crash of body, metal chair, and other items.  The CO finished this section of the count and walked over to find the inmate groggily trying to recover.  All the CO could manage that day was a semi-sympathetic “Dude, are you okay?”   Seeing the inmate wasn’t bleeding, he moved on.  I guess busting your ass (or face), to the amusement of the CO and other inmates, is sometimes punishment enough.

Dinner came next.  I was pleasantly surprised that the food was not as terrible as I had feared.  The portions of protein were somewhat limited, but there was plenty of lettuce and some other items on the salad bar, water or soda from the dispenser, a dessert item, and a side item.   Desserts or other limited items could be traded among the inmates, or simply given away to friends if you didn’t want them (I don’t like bananas, so those I always gave away freely).  Unfortunately, the quality and quantity of food served would decline as I continued by prison experience.  I was told by a staff member late in my sentence that the amount of money spent per inmate per day on food within the Bureau of Prisons had dropped from over $3.25 to close to $1.00 between when I arrived and when I went home.  Believe me, you could tell the difference.  Growing populations, budget limitations, and rising food costs took a heavy toll.  In fact, as more and more crimes became Federal crimes, the rapid growth in population would take a toll on just about every aspect of prison life by the time I left.

Overall, my first day was tolerable, and helped me accept that I could survive this experience without killing myself or being killed by others.  But the night had one last surprise for me.  This was early November, in the Pennsylvania countryside, so it was bound to get quite cold at night.  Lucky me, as it turned out, the heat in our living quarters had not been working for a day or so (I felt cold all day but figured it was just me).  So we had to sleep with no heat.  For most inmates this wasn’t a huge problem; they just slept with long johns and maybe two pairs of socks.  Not me!  I didn’t have any long johns yet, and the one pair of socks I had been given were old, thin, and had holes in them.  Even my blanket was thinner (and you only get one blanket).  So I had the pleasure of spending my first night in prison freezing my ass off, listening to the sounds of 60 men sleeping in the same room.  I did get some sleep, in between the snoring and the farting and the coughing…and the chattering of my teeth.  A nice reminder, if nothing else, that there would be surprises waiting around every corner!

(Watch for new stories in the future)

“What’s your out date?”

I didn’t know what that meant, and even if I had known, I wouldn’t have known the answer yet.  But that question was on the lips of everyone I met.  “What’s your out date?”  “What’s your out date?” 

I have since learned that this sort of question is completely out of bounds in any higher-security facility.  But when you are somewhere which offers the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program (RDAP), it’s all anybody cares about.

This is the way it works: in the Federal system, you’re sentenced to a specific number of months.  You’re then credited with an assumed 15% off due to good behavior and good conduct.  You can lose that time off, but you’re given it in advance as far as computing your estimated release date.  That estimated release date is your “out date.”  You might be released from prison before then, but only if you’re sent to a halfway house.  Time spent in the halfway house counts as time in prison, because you are still under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons.  But the “out date” is the day you are estimated to no longer be under their jurisdiction.  Most Federal inmates still have to serve a term of “supervised release” (known as “paper” among the inmates, which is overseen by the Probation Department). 

Generally, you never ask another inmate how long they’ll be incarcerated, because it’s the last thing they want to think about.  The only way to make it through a sentence of even a moderate length is to live day by day, build a routine, and let the days turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into month.  If you think about the time, you’ll go crazy.  Or if not crazy, at least you’ll be constantly miserable.

However, in an RDAP facility, your “out date” is priority number one.  That’s because there is always a waiting list for inmates to be admitted into the drug program, and that list is ordered based on who is going to be released first.  It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been an inmate, and it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been on the waiting list.  What matters is how much time you have left.  A new class of inmates is selected every two months, and they then begin the nine-month drug and alcohol program.  As each class of twenty to twenty-five inmates is chosen, those qualifying inmates with the shortest amount of time left on their sentence get in…the rest have to wait.


The reason this is so important to people is that you can receive up to a year off of your sentence for successful completion of the program (although if you “violate” in any serious way while in the halfway house, you have to serve the time off that you earned, and you’re sent back to a prison facility).  But how long you ACTUALLY get off is determined by how much time you have left when you graduate.  For example, let’s say you have an “out date” of January 1, 2010.  Regardless of your sentence length, for completing the program you are eligible for six months in the halfway house (instead of the standard 10% of your sentence UP TO six months).  As in most cases being in the halfway house is preferable to prison, that’s a good thing.  Anyway, if you completed the program with no time off your sentence, you’d be eligible to go to a halfway house around July 1, 2009.  How much time off you receive in addition to that depends entirely on when you graduate the program.  If you graduate on June 1, you’re saving about a month.  If you graduate on March 1, you’ve saved four months, and so on, up to a year.  So the idea is to get into the drug class as quickly as you can…the sooner you get in, the sooner you graduate, the more time you get off your sentence, and the faster you get home.

What happens in one of the RDAP facilities is that everybody makes it their business to stick their nose into everybody else’s business.  As the time for a new class to start approaches, they’ll run around, collecting information, trying to figure out if they’ll make it into the next class or not.  The nervousness grows, the tension builds, and anxiety becomes overwhelming.  Some of these inmates are trying to hold their family situation together, working feverishly to get their wife or girlfriend to stick by them and wait until they get home.  So it isn’t uncommon for promises to be made; “I’m going to be home by July.  I promise!”  But if the inmate doesn’t make it into the next class, those promises instantly become broken. 

If you promise your wife and kids that you’ll be coming home, and suddenly it looks like it will be another two (or four) months, that can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.  An inmate may find out he’s got an empty house to come back to…or no house at all.

I learned all of this later on.  Having just arrived, and not understanding anything going on around me, all I could do when people asked me about my out date was say “I have no idea.”  Not surprisingly, that was met with a great deal of skepticism by some of the inmates who approached me.  They’d look suspicious, and sometimes almost hostile, as if I had some secret I refused to share…a secret which could stand between them and their freedom.  No wonder it takes a while to settle in!

(Watch for Part Four in a week or so)

The Unit Manager talked to me in his office for about two minutes.  He was an ex-Marine type, but seemed pretty straightforward.  His instructions were rather simple: follow the rules, stay the hell out of his way, behave myself, and if I had any questions I should direct them to his clerk (an inmate) first before I bothered him with anything.

“You’ll be able to pick it up as you go along.  The rules are rather simple.  Follow the lead of the people around you, but be careful who you associate with until you figure out the lay of the land.”

Apparently an orientation for new inmates had taken place a day or two earlier, and the next one wasn’t scheduled for two weeks.  But Mr. Faulkner, the Unit Manager, strongly suggested I take an abbreviated, ad-hoc version so I wouldn’t have to sit in my bunk for two weeks and could instead be assigned work right away.  Also, it seemed obvious that for me to refuse the “suggestion” would be causing him a minor headache, so of course I agreed.  I didn’t much want to spend my time sitting by myself doing nothing anyway; I had quickly realized that for me to make it through this sentence, the busier I could keep myself the better.  I hadn’t considered that I’d be assigned a job, so this was actually a pleasant surprise.  I just needed to go through a few 5-minute orientation meetings and get medical clearance.

The medical clearance part was my first hurdle, as I was quickly summoned to the medical department so I could meet Dr. Walker, the head Mental Health professional (and, as I learned soon after, the guy who ran the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program – RDAP for short).  Dr. Walker was troubled by two of the answers I had given on my forms in the R&D paperwork.  First, I’d answered “Yes” to whether I felt depressed, and second I’d marked “Yes” to whether I had ever experiences suicidal thoughts.

I couldn’t understand why the first answer was such a surprise to anyone, as I explained to Dr. Walker.  “Of course I’m depressed.  This is my first day in prison, and I’ve got a 46-month sentence!”  But he was quickly able to determine I was not a danger to myself or others, and that the suicidal thoughts were from years ago.  It was at this point, however, that I first learned of the complete disconnect between the outside world of criminal justice and true life under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons.

Let me go back a few months in the story.  After I had pled guilty in court, I had to undergo what is known as a Pre- Sentence Interview (PSI) with an appoint court official.  This interview, in conjunction with other material gathered from my Pre-Trial officer, my lawyer, my family, my prosecutor, and forms filled out when I was first arraigned, would be used to write up my PSI Report.  That report (barring any objections by my lawyer or the government) would be used to determine how long of a sentence I received, what security level facility I should be designated to (if space was available), and any other important information relevant to my time as an inmate.

When I went to have this PSI, my lawyer (a public defender) went with me in case they asked questions he didn’t think I should answer.  He told me the woman who would be conducting the interview was very professional and understanding, and that he’d worked with her on prior cases with no problem.

“Before we go in there,” he told me, “I need to explain something to you.  There is a Drug and Alcohol Program available in some Federal prisons, and it is entirely voluntary.  If you successfully complete the program, you are eligible to get some time off your sentence, from a few months to almost a year.  But here’s the deal: if you want to be eligible for this program, you need to tell this woman about your alcohol and drug use today.  Evidence of your problems needs to go into the PSI for you to be eligible.  The BOP doesn’t want inmates trying to qualify for the program after they get to prison and find out they might be able to get a few months off their sentence.  So you need to decide now whether you are interested.  There’s no answer you need to give today about whether to want to actually sign up, but if you want to be eligible at all, you need to go in there and be open about your past.  She won’t mention the RDAP program to you, but anything you say may affect your ability to qualify when the time comes.  Speak now or speak never, basically.”

So we went inside, and I figured, what the hell…I may as well tell her my whole life story.  And I did, at least in an abbreviated form, and as directed by the questions she asked.  I talked about my parents’ alcohol use, how I started drinking when I was ten, my drug use, my mother’s mental disorders, Mara and all the problems she’d been through (and the ones we went through together), my divorce, my depression, and anything else that came to mind.  I cried a bit, but that was to be expected, as I hadn’t talked to anyone about a lot of these things in years (if ever).

As we left the interview, my lawyer looked sort of pale.  “Did you make any of that up?” he asked me.  I told him that not only was it all true, but that there were plenty of details and stories I didn’t bring up wither because she didn’t ask or there wasn’t enough time.  “Wow,” he said.  “I had no idea.”

The next morning I got a call from my Pre-Trial Officer, asking me to come in for a meeting.  I arrived the next day, and he explained to me that the woman I had interviewed with was very concerned about my mental state and my overall well-being, and that she had requested that I be put into some kind of therapy or counseling immediately.

“Look,” the officer told me, “you’re going to be in prison in six weeks anyway.  By the time we get the paperwork done, find you some program to go to, and get the judge to approve it, you’ll have time for maybe one appointment.  Are you doing okay?  I think it’s best if we just wait until you get to whatever facility you are assigned to, and you can get counseling and treatment there.  Just tell them what you need; they have all kinds of programs for that.  Are you okay with that plan?”

It was all find with me, since I wasn’t feeling any worse than usual anyway.  The urgency was coming from the woman who gave me the PSI, not me.  So I waited.

Now jump back to my first day in prison.  After Dr. Walker was convinced that I was okay to join the general population, I briefly told him about my experience with the PSI, and how I had been told to make it a point to ask for counseling appointments or whatever other mental health support might be available for me.

All I got in return was a blank stare for a moment, and then a confused reply.  “We don’t have counseling or therapy or anything like that here.  There’s nothing we can do for you.  You can go back to the Unit now.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and left.  Welcome to the BOP!


(Watch for Part 3, sometime in the next week or so)

Phrases They Never Warned That You Might Hear After You Got Married
Part One

1.  "I forgot that in a ballet they don't talk."

2. "I have something in my butt.  Help me get it out."

The two R&D officers who were there to process me could have been brothers or cousins, based on looks and attitude.  Each of them was terribly overweight, almost apple-shaped, with grey hair and moustaches.  And they both carried a sarcastic, arrogant sense of humor which might have intimidated some people.  I didn’t find their attitude being a problem for myself, though, since my personal sense of humor was very similar.  But that wasn’t about to give me the idea that I could mouth off to either of them.  On the contrary, my Dad’s advice stayed in the back of my mind at all times: behave yourself.  I was still pretty much numb to the entire experience anyway, so my mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it would normally be.

In this room I learned my first lesson about the CO’s I was going to be dealing with for the next few years: they size you up very quickly, and it takes some time to do anything to contradict that first impression.  In my case, they saw I was nervous, compliant, respectful, but not in a patronizing way.  I simply treated them the way I wanted to be treated, and it seemed to work.

As they had me filling out a few forms, one of them started in on me with an aggressive attitude, which I
suspected was simply a front.  “Why they hell are you here at noon?  We don’t normally like to process new arrivals until two.  You’re screwing our schedule up!”

I could have apologized, but instead I looked him in the eye and calmly told him the truth.  “Well, when I called here for driving directions a few days ago, whoever I spoke to told me I had beet show up early, because if I made them stay late they’d beat the shit out of me.”

The other R&D CO laughed.  “Yup, that sounds like something you’d say!”

He just laughed.  “Yeah I think I remember that conversation.  Okay, let’s get through this, it’s no big deal.”

Surprisingly, he was right.  The process was very simple.  I filled out a few forms, gave them the cash I had on hand (about $150, which was deposited in my inmate account for future use), and had fingerprints and a photo taken (the latter was for my inmate ID card).  Then I stripped, and collected my clothes in a plastic bag.  These were carried out to my Dad so he could take them home with him, along with my watch and my Driver’s License.  They checked for contraband, having me open my mouth, lift my legs one at a time to reveal the soles of my feet, and spread my ass cheeks.  Finally they gave me some terribly worn clothes: a blue t-shirt, a pair of whitish socks, brown pants with a drawstring, worn white briefs, and a pair of slip-on blue sneakers.  They also handed me a bedroll and a worn brown coat.  That was basically it…the two CO’s pointed me in the direction to go, told me to look for someone in charge, and sent me off with a simple statement: “We don’t want to see you down here again until it’s time for you to go home.”  I didn’t have the experience to really understand what they meant, but I correctly surmised that if I got in any kind of serious trouble I’d be sent back to R&D someday.  As I learned later, before being transferred to a higher-security facility or to the “hole” (the SHU – Special Housing Unit or Segregated House Unit) I’d have to be processed by these two gentlemen.  So the vague warning they gave me was meant for my own good…and for theirs, since the fewer people they had to process the less work there was for them to do.

That last item turned out to be a very common motivating factor among the staff; if they could find a way to avoid work, they would.  That wasn’t necessarily a negative for the inmates either; it worked both ways, depending on what kind of work you might be dealing with at the time.  One thing was for certain – if a CO was going to do a lot of work because of you, either you’d really pissed them off, or you were about to.

(Watch for Part Two sometime in the next week or so).

* An interview with Conrad von Metzke
* A review of the new Avalon Hill Diplomacy set
* Jack McHugh on Modern Diplomacy
* Chris Dziedzic on 1900
* An Intimate Dip Series Replay
* The winners of the latest Diplomacy World Writing Contest
* Jim O'Kelley on the 2008 Grand Prix
* The return of Pontevedria, a Game Opening Service, by W. Andrew York
* New humor by Rod Walker
* Two reports on WACCon 2008
* Stephen Agar on his life in Variants.
* and MUCH much more.

Diplomacy World is freely available in pdf format.  You can download it from the Diplomacyworld Yahoo group, or directly from the official Diplomacy World website at:

http://www.diplomacyworld.net/

Check it out, as well as all the back issues, classic articles, and other Diplomacy-related material.  While you're reading it, think about what article or articles YOU might want to submit for publication.  Don't be shy, give it a try!

And for GOODNESS SAKE - if you're not going to write an article, at least drop me an email or a Letter to the Editor to let us know how you liked the issue.  What did you enjoy, what could you have done without, what do you want to see more of?  If you have comments, questions, or ideas, we want to hear them!

Happy stabbing!

"Wouldn't It Be Nice?" Diplomacy Fall 1901 Results - including tremendous old-style press

By Popular Opinion and By Popular Demand

Book and Movie Reviews

Cinematic Catacombs

and more stuff...

If you want to see the pdf or html version, you can do so from the Diplomacy section of my website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

See ya! Happy stabbing!

Goodbye Tigger - A Good Friend and a Great Cat
1987 - 2008

So we started watching a few episodes recently, and it got me thinking more about my time in public school, and my experience with girls, and the fact that I don’t think I had the same outlook on them as other guys (or the same point of view towards guys that most girls had).  Or perhaps I simply think I’m different, when I’m not.  There’s always a lot of that going around too.

I never had that period as a youngster where I thought girls were gross.  In fact, long before puberty, I would think about girls in a romantic sense.  Not a sexual sense – I’d simply imagine some girl I liked in my class being my “girlfriend,”  with no real specific idea of what that meant except that we both liked each other and wanted to spend time together.  I can remember having a few declared “girlfriend” in the 2nd or 3rd grade: Wendy O’Connell being the first that comes to mind.  But there were others I’d think about a lot: Annie Williams, Sara Briggs, Sandy Sullivan, April, Tracy…and there was always the unattainable Patty Shepherd.  Even at this young age, I realized certain girls were out of my league.  Whether it was that they were from a very wealthy family, or simply that they openly demonstrated disdain for me (or my family), some girls were beyond me even as simply friends.  Of course, at this age I didn’t know what a mess my family was, and obviously without that realization I couldn’t have possibly known how some of the down looked at us with a combination of pity, trepidation, and repulsion. 

During those years, girls were generally a part of everything we did.  Oh, they wouldn’t play baseball with us during recess, but they were always invited to birthday parties.  In my elementary school classes, we had a seeming peculiar habit of gently scratching each other’s backs when we sat on the school floor watching movies or filmstrips.  There was no hesitation of doing that to a girl, or having her do it to you…you just asked, and they did it.  If someone asked you, you did it.  “Sex” was a foreign concept, so it wasn’t sexual.  It was basic, friendly, comforting human contact.  I sometimes wonder how that changes the development process, now that we live in an age where children can’t even hug or hold hands or any of the other things we did on a regular basis.  Then again, I only did those things in school…at home, we NEVER touched each other.  Touching meant someone was hurting you, or about to do something nasty like drop a bug down your shirt or stick a piece of skunk cabbage under your nose.

I’ve tried my best to figure out when my point of view on girls changed.  Probably around 6th grade, when we moved to New Jersey.  There I could actually fantasize about girls in a sexual way.  Maybe I didn’t consider the idea of having SEX, but instead kissing and holding and being affectionate.  I know there were a few females I lusted after.  Margie was the main one.  I thought she was the cutest, most wonderful being on earth.  At this age I still talked to other boys ABOUT girls, and I remember myself and Ed swapping desires: me for Margie, him for Lisa.  We found the strength of the infatuations we had to be amazing, like a whole new world had opened up to us.  My happiest moments were when she and I were on crossing guard patrol together for a week or two.  She talked to me, laughed with me…but in typical Kent fashion I never told her that I “like liked” her.  At the end of the school year she transferred to a private school (I think) and that was that.  I saw her somewhere – some school function – a year or two later, and realized whatever attraction I’d held for her was completely erased.  I guess I had moved on.

Somewhere between 6th and 7th grade, as I moved from Elementary School to Junior High School (referred to as Middle School in some places), I changed.  I don’t know why, I don’t know how, I don’t know what caused it.  I suppose puberty had started full force, although the awful plague of acne I’d do battle with for years didn’t really start right at this point.  Perhaps it was just going to a school with so many more people…I have no idea.  But it all changed.  Girls were no longer attainable.  And they never would be.  Oh, I could still think about them, list after them, fantasize about them like all heterosexual boys did…but it was the same as fantasizing about a movie star or a rock star.  The odds of me connecting with any girl I went to school with were about as likely as me finding myself in a romantic encounter with Jodie Foster or Olivia Newton John or Chrissie Hynde or one of the Go-Go’s or Patty Smyth or Claire Grogan or that woman from “Buck Rogers.”  In other words, zero.

Maybe I just realized how utterly out of step with the rest of the world I felt.  Even with my friends, I felt like an outsider, or being included seemed to be done out of pity or social obligation more than anything else.  Or, even with good friends like Fritz or McDougal or Richard Rives Howe Jr., I always (rightly or wrongly) sensed the attitude that while my being around was fine, they’d be equally as happy if I wasn’t.   They could take it or leave it.   The only time I didn’t feel that way, some of the time, was with my wargaming buddy Steve.  Aside from occasional arguments, we could spend nearly unlimited time playing games and ringing doorbells or talking.  Like everything else, that would change over time, but for a couple of years it was good to have.

So, while I’d fantasize about some of the marvelous, magical, mystical females in my world – Patrice, Synda, Beth, Ashley, Elana, and especially Helen – there was never the slightest hope that I could do more than pass them in the hall.  Even when a female seemed less other-worldly because they were openly friendly and sweet – Caroline, Gabby, the other Beth – I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury of thinking they could be anything but friends.  I did, in fact, find myself developing a few close friendships with females.  Ayla comes to mind – I loved talking to her, listening to her, discussing life and relationships and anything else with her – but that was a true friendship.  It was completely non-sexual, and was different and wonderful in its own way.  In the years to come I’d find myself forming similar friendships with other women, but that was the first of its kind for me.

Even later, when I met Mara and started dating her, the idea of any of the other women around me being attainable seemed ludicrous.  In fact, I don’t know if that has ever truly changed.  I’ve jokingly complained to Heather that I wish women would hit on me once in a while…but the fact is, women could hit on me day in and day out; I wouldn’t have the slightest idea that anything was going on.  With me, a woman needs to make the first, second, third, and maybe the fourth move.  Not that I need women making moves on me anymore; Heather might take issue with that!

So what is wrong with me?  Was I simply born without the gene to recognize a female’s interest in me?  Or do I think so little of myself that the idea anybody wants to be with me is laughable?  I used to think it was the latter.  But now, as I’ve gotten a bit older, I really think it’s the former.  It is one of my many genetic birth defects.  But as to the history of fantasizing about females, I am curious how different my experience is from everyone else’s.

• Turn 1 results of By Popular Demand
• Spring 1901 results of our first Diplomacy game
• Movie reviews
• Book reviews
• A new story
• and other foolishness.

Check it out at www.whiningkentpigs.com/dw/

Happy stabbing!

"Rain" is his new collection, the first studio album by Jackson since the awesome "Volume 4" of 2003 which reunited the original quartet which burst on the scene with "Look Sharp" and singles like "Is She Really Going Out With Him."  As anyone familiar with his music would expect, "Volume 4" was both a brief nostalgic look at those early days and a complete departure.  Granted, it did include Jackson's first true piece of nostalgia ("A Little Bit Stupid"), but the best tracks were those like "Chrome" or "Awkward Age" which combined the tightness of the band with the eclectic energy JAckson usually contains.

"Rain" reduces that quartet to his old trio, Graham Maby on bass and Dave Houghton on drums.  But the music is full, emotive, and as good as anything Jackson has ever written.  Whether rocking through power songs like "King Pleasure Time" or gliding along in melodies like "Rush Across the Road", this disc captures the maturity of the aging artist while proving his wit and insight is as sharp as ever.  Impossible to accurately classify, I suppose you could put the album in "Adult Contemporary." 

A deluxe version includes a bonus DVD of live performances, interviews, and other extras.  I'm enjoying the music so much that I haven't gotten to that yet...much in the same way it took me over a month to take "Volume 4" out of my CD player in 2003 to enjoy the bonus live CD my copy came with.

Joe Jackson is supporting this album with a world tour in select cities.  Like in 2003, the music will be easily translated to the live setting.  I've already got my ticket for the April show here in Dallas.  If the band is coming through your area, do yourself a favor and get yourself a seat.  And in the meantime, give "Rain" a spin, along with "Volume 4" if you missed that release.  Great stuff.

“Get yourself a PEL grant, earn a college degree,” he told me.  “And try to behave yourself.  I bet it won’t be that different than my time at basic training during Korea.  You’ll meet a lot of interesting people, that’s for sure.”

I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything, so I just had some coffee before we hit the road.  Originally the plan was for Barbara and Dad to drive me together, but as things worked out Barbara had to work that day after all.  Instead, it was just the two of us.  If the directions were accurate (and I had called the prison switchboard and was told they were) it would take about 3 ½ hours to get there, with most of that time spend on Interstate 80.  I wasn’t much worried about the trip there; I was more concerned about my father trying to handle the return drive all by himself.  Prison was bad enough, but the idea of discovering my father had been killed on the highway would have pushed me completely over the edge.

The trip was generally uneventful.  While it was rather chilly, there wasn’t any ice or snow on the ground, and traffic was light once we got out of the New York City area.  We had to stop once for gas and a bathroom break.  At the store, my Dad picked up three chocolate muffins with chocolate chips.  One of these he handed to me, while he explained that he’d eat the second in the car, discard any evidence, and bring the third home to eat later with the claim that he’d only bought two.  Typical of Dad; he used to try and inject himself with a few drops of extra insulin so he could enjoy some ice cream immediately afterward.  You had to laugh at the childish streak he carried…one which I carry as well, even to a larger extent.

Eventually we left I-80 and headed north towards Williamsport.  Halfway between the who we found our way to the Federal complex at Allenwood.  While the brick buildings along the road had an institutional feel to them, they wouldn’t have seemed quite so sinister if I hadn’t known what was just around the corner.  There were no decipherable signs on the road, but rising to the crest of a hill I could see a large prison building on our right.  There was a sizeable parking lot, a brick building to the left, and then a compound surrounded by fences and vicious barbed-wire on the right – complete with guard towers at the corners.  The circular driveway up to the main entrance was chained off, a familiar sight in the post 9-11 era, so we had to park out in the main lot.  Neither of us were sure of this was where I was supposed to be reporting, but it looked much more foreboding than I had imagined.  All I could think to myself was “I’ve got to do 46 months in this place?”

I offered to go inside to ask if this was the proper reporting location, but Dad was afraid that once I went inside I might not be allowed out again to say goodbye.  So instead he shuffled in with me, which took a good five minutes.  If he wasn’t exhausted from the drive, I knew he had to be after that long walk.

In the sterile entranceway, a guard at the front desk looked up my name on his computer.  He shook his head at us.  “Nope, you’re supposed to report to the camp.  Make a left out of the parking lot and take your first right.  There’s no sign, so watch for the turn.”  Camp…yes, that sounded much better than the building we were in.  I tried to ask if I could pull the car around the driveway so my father wouldn’t have to walk all the way back, but the guard just shook his head and told me no.  So after another slow journey, we were back in the car, and on our way to my new home.

Pulling up at the right place finally, I got smart and made sure we said our goodbyes before I got out of the car.  I walked up a long flight of concrete steps and found what looked like a bank teller’s window.  An officer inside told me to wait out in the parking lot, and that another officer would appear shortly across the way and tell me what to do.

After about five more minutes of waiting, a short and very rotund officer came out of a door with a manila folder.  Shouting from across the parking lot, he had me confirm my name, Social Security number, and some other personal information.  Satisfied that I was who I said I was, he told me to approach and enter the building, and yelled to my father that someone would be out within 30 minutes to bring him my clothes and any other personal belongings.  With a wave, I left my Dad and walked through the door.  I was now a Federal inmate.

This was the first time I’d seen my Dad in his car – a little Hyundai Accent.  Until he’d bought this, his Parkinson’s and severe Diabetes had greatly limited his mobility.  But with the Hyundai, he had achieved a small degree of freedom.  Walking was still a real ordeal for him; he would shuffle along like Tim Conway’s “Old Man” character, moving inches at a time.  But in the driver’s seat, my father was like anybody else on the road.  I know this made him feel like less of a burden on his wife Barbara, and we all dreaded the way when he would no longer be able to safely drive around.

While we drove back to their house, Dad lectured me on what a great value the Hyundai had been, and how I should buy myself one.  “I don’t think I’ll be needing a car anytime soon Dad” I replied with a subdued laugh.  Things got quiet for a few minutes after that, but I tried my best to appear in a generally good mood.  I didn’t want to make things any harder on him than absolutely necessary.

We arrived at their house, and after a quick call to Heather to let her know I’d made it in one piece I ran to the shower to clean off.  Two long days on the train had left me feeling terribly dirty and greasy.  I made it a point to relax in the shower, taking my sweet time, using all the hot water I could.  I really had no idea what the showers would be like in prison, and I recognized that this would be my second-to-last shower as a free man (the last one being the one I’d take the next morning).  It felt good to get clean, to shave, and to put fresh clothes on. 

When planning this little detour on the way to prison, I’d been offered the choice of either going out to dinner on my final night, or eating at home.  I’d selected staying in.  I wanted to be as comfortable as possible, spend time with a few family members, and drink a little more wine than necessary.  Plus, because we would be leaving the next morning, I didn’t want my father to get all tired and worn out trying to play the host.  By staying home, he was free to pass out in his armchair whenever he felt like it. 

Dinner was a bit more upbeat than I expected.  Maybe we were trying to force it somewhat, but I did my best to joke and laugh and not to focus too much on what might be coming.  Five or six glasses of good wine helped keep my spirits up too.  That was the last time I’ve tasted alcohol; it has been over four years now!

Before going to sleep I called Heather one last time.  She sounded very sad and lonely, but she didn’t want to let on how much it hurt to say goodbye.  When we hung up the phone, I lay in the dark thinking about how amazing it was to have known Heather for less than a year, but to feel so connected to her.  But I had to shake my head too; why had I only found this magical feeling a few months before discovering I’d be spending years as an inmate?  Still, I was not worried about whether the relationship could survive our time apart.  In a logical sense, I knew that if Heather chose not to wait for me after all, there had been no guarantee we would have stayed together if I hadn’t gone to prison.  On an emotional level, I never doubted for an instant that Heather would stand behind me.  Oh, I wasn’t sure about how she would react when I first told her, but once she’d told me that she would be there for me, there was no hesitation in my heart.  We were meant to be together, and this was simply another obstacle our love would overcome.  As I fell asleep for the last time as a free man, I made a mental commitment to spend every available moment reminding Heather (through letters mostly, I assumed) that I cherished her, loved her for who she was, and would never take her for granted.

I hope she knows that I still feel that way today, only more so.

(watch in the netx week or so for Part Five)

At first, I was very concerned that my fears had been well-founded.  The initial scenes are a barrage of one-liners and modern teen-speak, delivered with a very self-aware attitude as if the script is trying far too hard to be quirky and hip.  Juno (Ellen Page), a 16-year-old, find herself unexpectedly pregnant after losing her virginity to a schoolmate (Michael Cera)…or, more correctly, after he loses his virginity to her.  But once the movie progresses past the initial plot twists and Juno decides to have the baby and give it up for adoption, the story, acting, and dialogue takes hold and carries you along for the ride.

Despite their obvious unhappiness at their daughter’s situation, Juno’s parents (J.K. Simmons and the always awesome Allison Janney) support her decision.  Through an ad in the Penny-saver, Juno locates her prospective adoptive parents the Lorings (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner).  Vanessa Loring is a bit uptight and stiff, while husband Mark is, in Juno’s estimation, cool.  She and Mark share musical tastes, and are both horror film buffs.  Feeling alienated from the ranks of average High School students, Juno finds reasons to stop by the house and visit with Mark.

Avoiding some potentially predictable plot directions, and keeping the characters are much more than simple one-dimensional cutouts, Juno brings laughter into a difficult situation without forgetting that the delicate story includes characters who will have to move on with their lives after the final credits roll.  Juno and her parents supply most of the best lines, as they meet the complications of life with a sarcastic humor I find far too familiar.  Jennifer Garner, in particular, brings surprising sensitivity to her character, and director Jason Reitman allows her (and the other cast members) to slowly reveal more of themselves in actions and body language.

If you haven’t seen Juno yet, either make the trip to your local movie house or wait for DVD release.  It’s worth watching, and overall is quite enjoyable.  Just don’t let the first few minutes trip you up.