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"Never discuss religion or politics in polite company." -- So goes the old adage. Never been much on old adages or polite company, and though I may be sailing into rough seas, here goes . . .

Laid up with a bad cold yesterday, and while channel surfing, caught part of Bill O'Reilly's interview with Bishop Thomas Tobin of Rhode Island. Seems the Bishop has his frock caught in his crack, and is righteously pissed (as Catholics always seem to be -- and this from one who was raised Catholic) at Representative Patrick Kennedy's pro-choice stance on abortion. The Bishop has publicly chastised Kennedy for being a bad Catholic (there's a compliment in there somewhere) and ordered him to abstain from receiving communion -- holy or otherwise.

Now, I'm no fan of the Kennedys or holy mother church. The Kennedys are the product of a bad gene pool. JFK was a wonderfully charismatic and charming man who probably would've gone down in history as a very mediocre president had it not been for an assassin's bullet. Bobby seemed a true humanitarian and probably the best of the lot -- but again, we'll never know. Joseph P. Kennedy, the family patriarch, was a creep with handles: not only a bootlegger and Nazi appeaser of epic proportions (as Ambassador to Great Britain, Joe was all for handing over the Jews, the Poles and half of Europe to Adolf Hitler, just so no precious Kennedy blood would be spilled in a war); but a Wall Street robber baron whose stock manipulation pools helped hasten the market crash of 1929 and the ensuing depression. Quite a guy.

As for the Catholic Church . . . well, at least they're not urging people to fly planes into buildings -- they're too busy acquiring real estate. Question: who is the largest holder of real estate on the isle of Manhattan? No. It ain't The Donald. It's the parish of Trinity Church; that little, gothic-spired house of worship that sits atop Wall Street. So much for the vow of poverty. But no, the hypocrisy doesn't end with the hording of the long green: parish priests driving BMWs and the Pope living in opulence which would cause a Saudi prince to seem like the denizen of a trailer park by comparison. Oh no. Let's get back to that communion thing . . .

Now it's been a while since I've done any genuflecting at the altar of Saint Thomas Apostle Church in Woodhaven, Queens. My days as a Catholic schoolboy long behind me. But I do vividly recall the story of the last supper: Jesus broke the bread and passed it to his disciples saying, "Eat this. This is my body which is given for you." Then he filled a cup with wine, passed it to them and said, "Drink this. This is my blood which is shed for you."

Let's remember the backstory here. Jesus was the son of God. An omnipotent being who knew full well that the men seated at his table were flawed. He knew that in a matter of hours, Judas Iscariot would betray him; deliver him up to the Romans for crucifixion. He knew that Peter, the "rock" upon which he would build his church, would deny him. Knew that all of them, at some point, would fail him. Yet he gave them communion.

The Bible tells us that before sitting down to their meal, Jesus knelt and washed the feet of each Apostle. The son of God, washing the feet of the men who would betray, deny and fail him. It's a parable of unequivocal power extolling the virtues of tolerance and forgiveness. And one which seems oddly lost on Bishop Tobin.

It never ceases to amaze me how the church that claims Jesus Christ as its founder, so often refuses to follow his example.

What "really" went on behind the scenes during the filming of 'Viva Las Vegas' with Elvis, Colonel Tom Parker and . . . Oh lordy! . . . Ann-Margret! (And what about that crocodile?)

Find out for yourself at:



You're gonna love Doug MacDonald's stunning graphic!

The moon hung tilted and lazy in the night sky. A heifer dozed in the field -- dreaming peacefully of whatever it is heifers dream of -- tail swishing the persistent swoop of a horse fly.

A light shone in the barn window. Inside, Jake and Linda Lou lie exhausted on a mound of hay.

"Are you sure we done it right?" Linda Lou asked.

"Yep. Juss like it show'd in the manual." Jake said.

Linda Lou made a face, "I dunno. Seemed kinda tight. Maybe we shoulda used more grease?"

Jake licked his finger and stuck it in Linda Lou's belly button. She squealed and socked him in the arm. For a girl who couldn't weigh no more than a hunnerd pounds, she sure packed a wallop.

"Don't you go makin' fun a me Jake juss 'cause it was my first time an' you done it before!"

"Aww, I ain't makin' fun a ya Linda Lou. Like I tol' ya, ain't nothin' ta fixin' the wheel on a tractor. An' don't you worry. We used plenty a grease."

"Well, whataya wanna do now?" Linda Lou asked, resting her head on Jake's shoulder.

"That heifer's asleep out there. Why don't we go outside an' tip her over juss for fun?"

"Jake, you are a wild one!" Linda Lou said, and socked him again.

Abbie Hoffman: Yippie leader, counterculture icon and prankster extraordinaire, published his legendary manifesto of the subversive, "Steal This Book," in 1971. In his tome -- basically a handbook for waging the new revolution -- Abbie instructed his readers on how to "F" with "The Man" in various ways ranging from building their own incendiary device; to placing several dead fish inside a safe deposit box at their local bank. (The fish would reek to high heaven, but as long as they continued to pay the rental fee, the capitalist pigs at the bank could do nothing about it.)

If Abbie's book were to be published today, in the looming shadow of The Patriot Act, he'd no doubt be cooling his heels at Gitmo -- or perhaps some ocean front property in Bermuda -- all courtesy of your tax dollars. Abbie was the consummate anti-capitalist. In an act which burned with all the pure, crystalline irony of a Zen Koan, Abbie urged people to steal his own book. So, in honor of Abbie, and to keep the spirit of the revolution alive, I urge all of you to please steal my book.

That's right. I know things are tough out there, and let's face it, those capitalist swine who published the thing have no business expecting people to cough up $24.95 for a lousy trade paperback. $24.95??? For Christ's sake, the thing is only 148 pages long! No wonder I can't get my own fucking grandmother to buy a copy!!! (Sorry Nana.) So please. If you happen to spot a copy of "Horse Latitudes" at your local bookstore -- go ahead and swipe the frigging thing. It would mean a lot to me. And don't just steal my book. Steal some others too. (I hear Bill O'Reilly's book is pretty good.) Michael Moore is right. Capitalism sucks. Power to the people! Your comrade -- Quinn

Dear Diary:

It's been almost three months now since my best friend Dwayne and I relocated to Las Vegas and life is good. It was tough getting used to the heat at first, but I think I've finally become climatized. Today it only reached a hundred and thirty-two degrees -- about the same temperature as the north pole of Venus. Not exactly like the winters back in Idaho, but at least it's cooling off. I'm told it gets so cool in the fall here that the tires on your car don't even melt (this will make driving to work much easier).

Dwayne and I have been staying at the Budget Suites and we really like it. There's a pool and a lot of very interesting people who live here and it all kind of reminds me of watching Melrose Place with my little sister Sissy. There's a really nice couple from The Ukraine whom I've met here, Boris and Svetlana. It took them fifteen years to save up enough money to visit Las Vegas, but now that they're here they're loving it. Last week they visited the Paris Hotel & Casino and had their picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. They were so excited! (I didn't have the heart to tell them that the real one is in France.) It hasn't been all fun and games for them though. Yesterday their goat drank the water from the swimming pool and had to be rushed to the veterinarian. It was touch and go for a while but he's expected to make a full recovery.

Speaking of interesting people, last night the police raided the suite of our neighbor. A guy who calls himself "Space Ghost." Turns out he had a methamphetamine lab in is living room. I suspected he was a tweaker when I found him mowing the lawn at 3am one morning (even stranger since we don't have a lawn).

I'm pleased to report that I've finally met a girl. Her name is Cheyenne. She works as a dancer at The Spearmint Rhino and is also taking courses on the computer to become a dental hygienist. She's a lot of fun but is addicted to gambling. She's also addicted to alcohol, nicotine, crack, caffeine, pcp, nitrous oxide, amyl nitrate, texting, genital piercing and Sweet 'N' Low. She recently developed an addiction to doing the laundry, and last week while we were out, broke into our suite and laundered and starched all my socks and underwear. It was very disconcerting and I think I'm going to have to end it.

Things aren't going so well for Dwayne. I'm afraid he's fallen in with a bad crowd. Dwayne was quarteback of our football team and the most popular guy in high school, but now he's changed his name to "Latoya" and has taken to wearing high heels and spandex and spends all his time hanging out by the convention center. Oh well. I guess he's just trying to fit in. I'm feeling a little tired so guess I'll sign off for now. Tomorrow is Saturday and a big day here at "The Suites." Management will be serving a free continental breakfast (donuts and coffee), and later in the afternoon we're scheduled to have the filter in our air conditioner changed. I wonder what they'll be doing back in Idaho?

Dear Scott --

Just picked up the 9/17 issue of Las Vegas Weekly. Now that the blood has finally stopped shooting out of my ears, thought I'd share a few thoughts with you . . .

1) Did David Berke really refer to Jay Mcinerney as a "Titan of American lit" ??? WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! Comparing a rack of double Ds to a claymore? (Tell Dave to check out my blog post "Barf Bag Included.") Someone should take a soldering iron to Mcinerney's testicles.

2) Kudos for the Kanye West bit on your front cover. Kanye really broke the douchebag mold with his outburst at the MTV Video Music Awards -- stealing the spotlight from a 17 year old girl. He should have lunch with Andy Dick.

3) Your magazine rocks!!! Reminds me of a cross between National Lampoon and The Village Voice. You're a god Scott!!! (Enough ass-kissing.)

4) The Xanax isn't working.

5) Hey, issat a copy of 'Horse Latitudes' in that pile of books in the Rick Lax photo on page 18? (I think so!)

P.S. -- Keep up the good work. I hope you get toe fungus -- Quinn

Unless you've spent the last decade living in a cave somewhere, chances are you're intimately acqainted with the HBO series "The Sopranos." The exploits of the crew from Satriale's Pork -- Tony; Paulie Walnuts; Big Pussy; Sil -- not only made for groundbreaking television, but resonated with the American TV viewer in a way that's never before -- and will likely never again -- be duplicated. For me it's a bit more personal. The Sopranos wasn't merely the greatest television drama of all time; it was a trip down memory lane.

I grew up in a section of Queens, New York, that was the Mecca for all mob-related activity in NYC. Traditionally it had been Manhattan's Little Italy which served as headquarters for the NY Mafia; but in 1985, our most famous resident, one John Gotti, "pushed a button" on one Paul Castellano. As Big Paulie's body lie lifeless and bullet-riddled outside a posh Manhattan steak house, "Johnny Boy" usurped his throne. John Gotti was now the "Capo di tutti capi" . . . the "Boss of Bosses" . . . or as Mario Puzzo had once put it: "The Godfather." Life in Queens was about to get very interesting.

Ozone Park, Queens, was home to the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club: a nondescript storefront on 101st Ave. just off Cross Bay Blvd. that served as Gotti's headquarters. A tough, blue collar neighborhood whose side streets ran like tributaries into the main drag of Liberty Ave. -- auto body shops, construction companies and warehouses thick with graffiti, all doing mob business in the shadow of the old elevated train tracks. Ozone Park was the stomping ground of "Goodfellas" Jimmy 'The Gent' Burke and Henry Hill -- and home to our very own "Satriale's Pork." I'm not gonna spill the beans and mention the establishment by its real name (last I heard it's still in business and I like my kneecaps where they are); let it suffice to say that it was a mob owned 24 hour dairy farm & deli famous for the Italian sausage ground and stuffed in its basement. It was also the place where local teenagers such as myself made late night beer runs.

The dairy farm sat on a triangle of asphalt -- the building itself tri-cornered. Atop its roof, perched in each of three corners, were the giant, fiberglass replicas of a cow, chicken and pig. While the cow and chicken were rather pedestrian representations of their respective species, the pig was in fact an enormous, cartoon "Porky Pig" sporting a chef's hat and apron. Were it not for this fact, my story would end here.

It was a hot, late summer Friday night. My best friend Doug and I had been club hopping out on Long Island. Unsuccessful in our attempt to score with any of the local talent, we'd decided to call it a night and head back to Queens. Buying a couple six packs, we took up residence on a bench in a little park just across from the dairy farm. As we drowned our frustration in Pabst Blue Ribbon, I had a clear view of Porky perched on the roof above. Illuminated by a spotlight, there he (it) stood: big as life (bigger actually), in his chef's hat and apron. I don't know why -- maybe it was the beer buzz, or my thwarted hormones, or just the fact that I was an ornery, young punk from Queens whose colyones were bigger than his brains -- I dunno -- but I just hadda have that pig.

"Hey Doug." I said, swilling some warm PBR, "I'm gonna climb up there and grab that pig."

"You know who owns that place?"

"Yeah."

Doug drained his beer; crushed the can like an accordion and flipped it into the public trash receptacle, "What the fuck. Let's do it."

Now, scaling the side of an all-night dairy farm and making off with an 8 foot fiberglass pig bolted to its roof without benefit of ladder or tools was no easy feat. Fortunately I was well-muscled from years of pumping iron and pounding heavy bags in various NYC gyms; Doug, on the other hand, was a big old bear of a kid tipping the scales at 240 plus. I'd once seen him knock a man clean through a wooden piss house door with a single shot to the solar plexus. We were more than up to the task. So we hopped into my blue, 4 door '74 Maverick: the tranny went about every other month leaving me with only reverse gear, and it leaked power steering fluid like a sieve, but man if cars could talk. Pulling around back of the dairy farm we parked next to a dumpster. Using the hood of my car as a starting point, we hauled ourselves up onto the top of the dumpster, then a low roof jutting from the first floor: an awning; a drain pipe and don't ask me how, but in minutes we were on top of the building itself -- and there was Porky.

We knew the sucker was big just eyeing him from the ground, but up close . . . Man he was HUGE! 8 feet was a conservative estimate . . . and girth? . . . how 'bout 4 feet around at the beltline? Not only was he bolted down to a wooden platfom, but secured by four wire cables as well. For the luva Christ how were we gonna pull this one off??? Peering over the edge of the roof we could see that the well-lit parking lot was filled with cars; a steady stream of late night shoppers coming and going. This was crazy . . . but so were we. Besides, we'd come too far to back out now.

The cables were first. We managed to rip them free without too much effort (though we had to wrap our t-shirts around them to keep from lacerating our hands). Then the bolts. There were four of them as well -- good sized suckers -- punched through a fiberglass lip molded around Porky's feet. Using brute force, Doug and I grabbed hold of Porky and snapped them off at the base. It made a horrendous cracking sound -- loud enough, I was certain, to be heard inside the dairy farm -- but Porky was free of his restraints . . . and he was ours. I shinnied back down onto the first floor roof. Using the remnants of the cables still attached to Porky's body, Doug lowered the prize down to me. We repeated the manuever til Porky was safely on the ground. More awkward than heavy, we hoisted him onto the roof of my Maverick. While I drove with one hand, an end of one the cables wrapped around the other, Doug did likewise in the passenger seat. Together we managed to anchor the giant, fiberglass pig to the roof of my car.

Foregoing the safer side streets, we made our way up Rockaway Blvd. Screw the cops. We were like a couple of drunken barbarians who'd just pillaged an unsuspecting village displaying our booty. Actually we were just young and stupid. So what? We passed late night motorists slack-jawed with disbelief at the sight of two teenagers making off with a giant, fiberglass pig atop the roof of their car. One old biddy, her hat festooned with geraniums -- probably returning home from a late night bingo session -- made the sign of the cross. We hit a red light at Woodhaven Blvd. Some mustache in a Cadillac Eldorado rolled up next to us. He just sat there grinning in his liesure suit and pinky ring. Doug leaned out the window.

"Hey mister. We got a body in the trunk. Can ya help us get rid of it?"

The guy sped off.

With our prize secured, we headed for Sixty Park (a fenced-in playground adjoining P.S. 60 elementary school) -- our hangout. Driving onto the sidewalk, we pulled through the front gate of the park barely clearing Porky's potbelly. As expected, the boys were all there getting lit. The whole crew: Bubbles; Gleepy Globster; Claff; the Cleary brothers; Pingle . . . Murch. Whenever any shit went down in the neighborhood, Murch was the kid the cops always came looking for. A freckled, beanpole of a kid, by age twelve he was already over 6 feet tall and could suck down two six packs without blowin' chunks -- the rest of us had to be carried home after 2 or 3 cans. There was only two things Murch truly loved: getting wasted and basketball . . . and fucking with people -- well, three things (and not necessarily in that order).

"Well gents . . . looks like someone's brought home the bacon!" Murch said as we rolled up by the parkie house.

The boys gave us a hero's welcome. Amidst all the hand slapping and bear hugging as we recounted the tale of our "pig-napping," only Bubbles managed to interject a note of lucidity.

"Are you guys fuckin' stupid? Do you know who owns that place?"

Yes. We were fucking stupid. But what's the point of being young if you can't be stupid?

So, what do you do with an 8 foot fibergalss pig 'earli in the mornin'? -- If you're the collective mind of a group of drunken teenagers in Queens, NY, circa 1978, you do the most obvious thing: stick it in the public restrooms in back of the parkie house -- the ladies' room of course. One problem though: there was more pig than doorway; about 6 inches more. So we made a contest of it. We stood Porky in front of the ladies' room doorway and each took turns charging like a linebacker, attempting to shoulder-butt him (it) through. Honestly, I don't remember how many attempts it took, or who finally turned the trick, but we managed to wedge Porky through -- cracking off a piece of him in the process. We left him next to the toilet stall; all 8 feet of him. Our work was done.

After more hand slapping and bear hugging, Doug and I left the boys to their drinking. The sun was coming up and they were firing up the grill at the Forest View Diner on Jamaica Ave. Time for some grub. What we didn't know (but would discover later), was that while Doug and I were busy wolfing down our eggs and sausage; home fries, double toast and coffee, Phil the Parkie had arrived to start his work day. Phil was the grounds keeper at Sixty Park -- an overweight, middle-aged drunkard prone to psychotic episodes. When he found Porky next to the ladies' toilet, he immediately dialed 911 and began screaming that there was an 8 foot pig in the ladies' room. Now, what Phil neglected to mention, was that the pig in question was wearing a chef's hat and apron -- and made of fiberglass (an important bit of information as it turned out).

Finishing our breakfast, Doug and I decided to swing by the park one more time to admire our handywork. We weren't prepared for the scene that awaited us. Phil's frantic 911 call had created a shit-storm. Hearing that there was an "8 foot pig" in the Sixty Park ladies' room, the authorities naturally assumed that a giant, wild boar had somehow wandered onto the premises. Nearly every emergency vehicle in the county had converged on the site. There were fire trucks, ambulances and police cars everywhere. Poor Phil was strapped to a gurney, being given oxygen by a team of paramedics. It was bedlam. We got the hell out of there pronto.

Porky was eventually returned to the dairy farm and once again placed atop the roof next to his two fiberglass pals: the cow and chicken. And guess what? A month later Doug and I climbed up there and swiped him again. This time we spared poor Phil and left Porky on the front lawn of the captain of the local police precinct -- an s.o.b. we'd nicknamed "Barney Fife" -- who reveled in harassing the Sixty Park crew. A few days after the incident, two guys in pinstripe suits paid a visit to Phil at the park. Representatives of the dairy farm, they were curious as to which of the young punks who hung out there might be responsible for the pig-nappings. Phil gave them only one name: Murch. The very next day, Murch was snatched off the street by the same two guys and forced into the back of a black Lincoln Town Car. They took him down into the basement of the dairy farm, sat him next to the sausage grinder, and in no uncertain terms explained that the next time their pig disappeared, so would Murch. Murch was one of the boys. Though he may have ended up as sausage links cooking on someone's barbeque grill, he never gave us up. Murch was a stand up guy . . . and we never forgot it.

We never swiped Porky again. Though every now and again we'd threaten to just to see the look on Murch's face. Hey, we were young and stupid and living in Queens, NY, at the tail end of the '70s. Looking back on it all now, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

On July 21, 1969 Neil Armstrong stepped off the LEM of Apollo 11 and onto the surface of the moon; barely 66 years after Orville Wright's first solo flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Using technology and materials that hadn't existed a decade earlier, and navigating by means of a computer system less powerful than a $12 digital watch, two astronauts landed on the surface of the moon and were returned safely to earth.

A month later, in August of that same year, almost half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York for 3 days of peace, love and music. The two events marked a crossroads in our history. The age of Aquarius and the age of the silicon chip had intersected. The moon landing, occurring a month earlier, was a harbinger of what was to follow, and serves as a metaphor for the eclipsing of the spiritual by the technological; the poet by the scientist.

All those hippies left Yasgur's farm abandoning their notions of free love and getting back to nature -- ditched the bell bottoms and lava lamps and went to work in Silicon Valley -- invented the microchip and the internet; bought Volvos and Mercedes and took up golf. In his book, "Of a Fire on the Moon," Norman Mailer wondered if the moon landing had inflicted some terrible wound upon our collective psyche. Something had changed. I touched on it in the last 2 paragraphs of the chapter in my novel, "Horse Latitudes," titled "Who Shot Kennedy?" . . .

"Bongo helped himself to another marshmallow. It was a warm July night and the moon had risen fully now. Chester watched it shining clearly above the picnic grounds. Soon an astronaut would step down off the LEM of Apollo 11 and plant his foot on what had once been hallowed ground. Science would intrude on what for all known time had been the sole domain of poets and dreamers alone: the moon. After that, well -- one thing was for certain: no matter what they found up there, it would never again be as easy for a father to tell his young son that the mysterious ball of light that appeared in the heavens each night was really just a hunk of old cheese floating in the sky. Nothing would ever be that simple again.

The four boys huddled around the remains of the fire each thinking their own private thoughts. The sound of a cricket could be heard somewhere off in the distance. Then it was quiet."

Happy Anniversary -- Quinn

I was working the late shift at a well-known spring water company. We provided water coolers and dispensers and 5 gallon bottles of pure, sparkling spring water to health-conscious office workers and home owners who were fearful that their tap water was being poisoned by chlorine and insecticides or seepage from the local sewage plant.

We had a wonderful Christmas card-like logo of a beautiful, pristine aquifer with a moose grazing peacefully, hidden deep within the virgin woods of Maine -- so deep, as we told our customers, that it had never been fouled by man (unless of course he worked for us). People loved our spring water and business was booming. At 5pm, when the rest of my coworkers headed for home and hearth, I remained for the next 3 hours handling the toughest calls of the day. It was at 5pm that our 'route men' ended their day and customers who'd not received their deliveries, realizing that the H2O just wasn't comin', reached for their phones. It was 3 hours of pure, unmitigated hell, and I owned it.

A couple months prior, I'd been promoted to the position of 'Senior Teleservice Representative' -- my green, plastic name plate velcroed to the fabric wall of my cubicle, changed to blue -- signifying I was now the resident badass. My colleagues looked upon me with awe and admiration. I was the guy from that mythical place they'd all heard and read about -- New York City. I carried myself with a swagger and confidence that men feared and women loved -- and I handled all the hot ones. Oh, not just your run-of-the-mill irate customers, but 'escalated situations': customers threatening violence or suicide, or worse yet, demanding to speak with a supervisor. I was 'the cooler.' Everyone simply referred to me as 'Q.'

I'd come here to the wilds of Massachusetts to write my novel. To the land of Thoreau and Kerouac and Hawthorne and Cheever -- a land rife with the ghosts of great writers. Even Melville, a fellow New Yorker, had written "Moby Dick" here (on a farm in Pittsfield, where he eventually passed away). From the red brick factories of Lowell, to the long shadows of Walden Woods. It was my belief that if I couldn't write a novel here, then I couldn't write one anywhere. It was all on the line now.

I'd taken the teleservice gig -- a nice, easy job (or so I thought) -- to keep me afloat while I worked on my book. The job turned out to be more than I'd bargained for. The company was undergoing a major upheaval: changing routes, delivery days and frequency (often without notifying cutomers); revamping its billing and invoice system; eliminating some old brands while acquiring others (we were actually several companies withtin one). It was a cluster fuck. Customers weren't getting their deliveries . . . and they were pissed off.

So, with a cup of bad generic office brew (made worse by bad generic nondairy creamer and a hint of styrofoam), I adjusted my headset and settled in for the carnage that was about to ensue. The calls came rapid-fire; as soon as one customer hung up (I was not permitted under any circumstance to disconnect or end a call), there was a single "beep," and the next caller was already on the line. The first few calls were just standard fare; customers who hadn't gotten their deliveries. I apologized; explaining that the company was currently in the process of consolidating certain routes in order to increase efficiency and improve service (the usual bullshit), then I'd reschedule the delivery for the following day, assuring the customer it would be there bright and early (more bullshit).

There was the familiar "beep" and a voice on the other end of the line. At first I couldn't distinguish if it was male or female. I asked the customer for his (her?) account number and pulled up the information on my computer. The account was listed in the name of a 'Dominick' with an Italian surname -- a paesan -- the address listed in NYC; my hometown. I requested the caller verify that he/she was in fact the owner of the account by verifying name, address and phone number, then asked how I could be of assistance.

"It's your route man," The caller said, in a voice still sounding non-gender specific, "He hasn't been here in over a month."

I was perplexed. Since NYC was so densely populated, deliveries were made on a weekly basis, unlike some other areas of the country where deliveries were made every 2 or 3 weeks. For a route man not to show for a month was highly unusual. I checked the account to see if there were any billing issues. None. Why the no-show? I offered my apologies, promising I'd have some water there tomorrow -- A.M. -- and would follow up on the skipped deliveries with the branch manager.

"Thank you so much." The caller said, surprisingly unruffled by the situation, "The water here is just awful . . . It's an old building and the pipes are rusted. I won't even let my cat drink it or use it to water the plants."

"Gotcha." I said, "I'm from New York myself. Queens."

"Oh, well then you know . . ." There was a somewhat awkward pause, then the caller said: "I think I know why I haven't seen your route man. I think I might've scared him off."

"Scared him off?"

"Yes. I'm a female impersonator. The last time he made a delivery I answered the door while I was getting dressed. I had my wig and makeup on but . . . well . . . let's just say I wasn't wearing a 'holster.' I think I may have traumatized him."

"Ah-hah. Well, I'm sure it wasn't anything he hasn't seen before."

"I would hope not."

"So, what's it like being in show business?"

"Just fabulous. It's been my life's dream and things are finally starting to break for me. I just landed a part in a new John Waters film."

"Excellent. I'm a writer myself. I'm working on my first novel. I hope things'll break for me someday too."

"They will, they will. Just keep at it hon'. Your day will come."

And so hearing these words from a young Italian man who made his living by dressing in women's clothing oddly lifted my spirits. I believed him. Somehow I knew my day would come. You take the life preserver from the hand that offers it.

That night I drove the 62 miles from Norton back to my rented condo in Worcester. There Nakita, my aged Japanese Akita dog, was waiting for me to take him for his nightly walk. His hind legs were bad and at times the snowdrifts were so high I had to carry him. After he did his business, we'd retire to my writing room -- the master bedroom located in back of the condo that looked out on an ancient railroad yard. While Niki snored by my feet, I listened to the old freight trains rumbling off in the distance, and thought of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and dreamed of the day my novel would be finished and I could quit my lousy teleservice job . . . and I wrote.

As I write these words, four 5 gallon bottles of spring water sit out on my patio -- delivered by the very same company I once worked for. My novel has been published, and Niki has long since gone to that great Japanese doghouse in the sky. Many miles and years later here I sit: writing. The journey continues, and, I realize, I'm living the dream.

I'd like to give a shout-out to some old friends who made an intolerable situation almost tolerable: Mark McCarthy, Bobby Girard, Greg Messcher, Melissa Bower & Terry Madden --Thanks,'Q'

Almost 50 years ago a petty thief named Albert De Salvo confessed to the crime of the century -- strangling a series of women around Boston, MA.

Although his sensational killing spree has been eclipsed by the likes of Son of Sam, The Zodiac and Unabomber, let's take a moment to remember the man who first put serial killers on the map (and nearly earned Tony Curtis an Oscar nomination). But was De Salvo really the Boston Strangler? According to most experts who've studied the case -- no.

Seems that poor Al was duped into confessing to the crime by his sleazebag attorney, F. Lee Bailey, who promised him a book and movie deal (which he got by the way; note to all you aspiring authors out there; forget those pathetic query letters -- apparently embarking on a killing spree is the fastest way to land an agent), and after a few years making potholders in the local booby hatch, a gig as spokesman for Hertz rent a car. Well, things didn't quite pan out. De Salvo was sentenced to life in prison where he was murdered by a fellow inmate, and O.J. got the gig with Hertz (talk about irony).

But did De Salvo take an ominous secret with him to the grave? Who was the real Boston Strangler? Here's my list of candidates (feel free to comment with your own top picks) . . .

1) Richard M. Nixon -- Let's face it, Dick Nixon was a dark character. (Did you see that Frost/Nixon flick?) After losing the Presidential race to JFK, what better way to vent your frustration than by strangling a few innocent women in the new Commander-in-Chief's home state? Seems plausible to me.

2) O.J. Simpson -- I would've made O.J. my #1 choice but don't wanna be accused of being prejudice. I think O.J. framed De Salvo to get the rent a car gig; planted evidence and BLAH-BLAH-BLAH . . . I don't care. O.J. Did it. Not only is he the real Boston Strangler, I also believe he's responsible for the Lindbergh kidnapping and impregnating the Octo-Mom. (I'd also like to know his whereabouts during the rape of the Sabine women.)

3) A Disgruntled Postal Worker -- Hey, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some mail sorter who's about to start shooting -- or strangling. Always a possibility.

4) Stephenie Meyer -- Okay. So she wasn't even born yet. I can dream can't I?

5) Dick Cheney -- Hell, why not blame him for this too?

Have a wonderful 4th of July! -- Quinn