"The Terror Alert has been Raised to the Cover of Rush's Seminal Album Moving Pictures."

The Boston Police Department and the Department of Homeland Security: keeping Americans safe -- from cartoon characters.

The Cynicist Manifesto: Addendum

It's been awhile since I've added to my list of random musings and general beliefs, so with an admitted nod to both convention and convenience, here are a few more points that I think are worth making -- even if they're not worth a series of full columns.


K-Rap?

Like you, I could care less whether or not Kevin Federline lives to see tomorrow morning. Still, of all the vitriolic ridicule slung at K-Fed over the past year, at least one criticism has always left me a little confused: the notion that his music sucks. Don't get me wrong -- as anyone with ears would likely tell you, Federline's ego-fueled bluster laid overtop of the same monotonous, unimaginative beats displays not a single drop of noteworthy talent. Here's the thing though, the exact same thing can be said -- but strangely isn't -- about 90.7% of the illiterate troglodytes currently assaulting the masses on Urban Radio, MTV2's Sucker Free Sunday, and from the booming speakers of every idiot in a low-rider from here to the corner of Florence & Normandie.

I'm not talking about Mos Def, or Common, or Nas, or producers like Danger Mouse; I'm talking about dime-a-dozen self-parodies like Lil Boosie, Yung Joc and Chamillionaire -- guys whose names alone tell you everything you need to know about their complete lack of any discernable contribution to decent music.

Yet there are millions of supposed rap connoisseurs who draw some sort of distinction between the simplistic, bombastic buffoonery of Juvenile and the equally clownish verbal and visual molestation perpetrated by Federline. These people will invariably drag out impressive-sounding words like "flow," "cypher," and "technique" in their beat-down of K-Fed, as if most of what passes for hip-hop these days is a fine wine, whose intricate subtleties are to be gently pulled apart -- layer by precious layer -- and appreciated with the utmost respect for, and admiration of, craftsmanship.

Sure thing.

It doesn't take talent to be a borderline retard with a gold chain and the ability to rhyme two words. Say what you will about K-Fed -- he knows that.

Stop hatin'.


The Life of Your Child: Priceless

Mono-monickered singer Brandy gets into a car accident three weeks ago. Brandy kills a girl. Police aren't even done working out the potential charges to be filed against Brandy -- but guess where the family of the dead girl turn up yesterday?

If you said, "Why, they're in civil court hoping to turn the death of their loved one into a fortuitous windfall by suing Brandy to the tune of fifty-million-dollars," hey, give yourself a gold star.

The real tragedy is that these people weren't in the car with their kid.


Another Fine Meth

It's no secret that America is basically one giant elementary school class where the teacher is always willing to punish everyone for the antics of one or two class clowns. Our society is expected to be politically correct, child-proofed, family-protected, health-conscious and sin-free -- usually at the imposition of government; always at the expense of anyone with a thimble-full of common sense.

You've already found yourself victimized by the lowest-common-denominator when it comes to fast-foods -- and you've probably noticed that the same kind of chilling effect has now moved to the cold care aisle of your local drug store. The FDA now requires pharmacies to keep Sudafed and other decongestants whose active ingredient is pseudoephedrine behind the counter. That means that it can't be purchased after hours at all, and can't be purchased during business hours without identification, a signature, an authentication code, one of two security keys, the staff of Ra, the eyeball of a dead scientist at the end of a pen-knife to fool the retinal scanner, and Jack Bauer pointing a loaded gun at the clerk, screaming, "GIVE ME THE COLD MEDICATION!" If Drugstore Cowboy ever gets re-made, the Matt Dillon character is going to by-pass the Dilaudid and go right for the Claritin.

The reason for all of this hysteria of course is that pseudoephedrine -- in astonishingly high quantities -- can be used to make meth, which as we know from government and media reports is the deadliest substance known to man and the force behind an epidemic which threatens the life of every man, woman and child in America. Your kid is on meth. Your mother is on meth. The lesbian lover your mother met during a psychotic meth binge is on meth. You may be on meth right now and not even know it -- it's that wily.

In an effort to make sure that the anti-meth paranoia doesn't hurt what's really important -- the bottom line -- pharmaceutical companies have begun replacing pseudoephedrine in many decongestants with phenylephrine. It can't be used to make meth. It also doesn't work.

The end result is that -- as usual -- to stop one drug addict living in a trailer in the middle of Riverside, California, you'll be made to suffer through cold and flu season without a remedy that actually helps you to feel better.

But at least you'll be safe from that terrifying meth epidemic.

I'd say "Fuck you, FDA and drug companies," but I'm so goddamned congested it'll come out sounding like, "Fubk ou, FD (cough) ed dug cubpaddies (cough)."


I'd Like to Frak the Academy

I realize that I'll sound like a nerd of epic proportions for saying this, but I could care less; it needs to be said. The fact that Grey's Anatomy won a Golden Globe for Best Drama, and its cast won a SAG Award for Best Ensemble, is sickening. The show is insipid, and its cast would barely hold its own on The Guiding Light.

The fact that Battlestar Galactica was completely overlooked -- not even picking up a nomination in either category -- is nothing short of a travesty. Galactica remains the best-written, and positively best-acted show on television. Hands-down. No contest. None.

In this week's episode alone, the performances by Mary McDonnell and James Callis were extraordinary -- and throughout the past season, Michael Hogan, Edward James Olmos, and the rest of the cast have created characters so fully-realized that it stuns me to no end that they could go unnoticed.

The Globes are a popularity contest; I understand that. But I would expect a higher level of discretion and dedication to craft from the Screen Actor's Guild, particularly after witnessing the kind of pretentious self-congratulation that came out of the awards ceremony's opening monologue. Yes Freddy Rodriguez, I get it. You once had to wake up early and put in a day's work for a measely seven-hundred-dollars, and now look at you -- you're an ACTOR^(TM)! You shame me with your heroic perseverence in the face of seemingly impossible odds. Someone should name a cancer ward after you.

As far as I'm concerned, the request that SAG and its ACTORS^(TM) be taken seriously became the stuff of laughable mockery the moment they started believing that Katherine Heigl has created a better character than Katee Sackhoff.


The Cynicist Manifesto (9/22/06)

Miami: Putting the "Fun" in Funeral

This coming weekend my hometown of Miami will clear the dead bodies from the streets, kill as many of the man-eating cockroaches as possible, spray a little extra Windex on the glass case covering the giant statue of San Lazaro out in front of the Elian Gonzalez Memorial Crappy-Old-House and Museum, and of course, beg its twitchy population to please not shoot the tourists -- all in preparation for Super Bowl XLIXCCBMWNAMBLA. South Florida will once again serve the purpose for which it's suited best, namely as an uber-hip place to go for a weekend of drunken debauchery, followed by a quick departure, lest you eventually find that your name has somehow turned up on 327 absentee ballots in favor of electing Raul "Chucho" Pajon as mayor of Hialeah in the next general election.

Make no mistake, Miami shines up real nice, and it throws a decent tailgate party. This is important to keep in mind, being that the city is now planning, quite literally, the ultimate bowl bash.

Call it the "Castro Bowl*."

Like someone who's escaped a cult and now devotes his life to making others aware of the secret torture he and others like him have been forced to endure, I've more-than-once mentioned the unmitigated lunacy that accompanies my hometown's obsession with Fidel Castro (High Fidel-ity 8/3/06). I've also commented on controversial statements made by Colorado Congressman Tom Tancredo, who called Miami a "Third World country" (Ciudad del Futuro 11/28/06). The fact is there's nothing "controversial" about it; Tancredo's right -- even if he is an idiot. But now there's this: a story in today's Miami Herald detailing a plan by city leaders to throw a giant "Castro Death Party" in -- oh, this is beautiful -- the Orange Bowl. In keeping with the Cuban exile community's long tradition of class and subtlety, its leaders -- in particular, city commissioner and unparalleled buffoon Tomas Regalado -- are recommending that Miami's legendary football stadium be the central location for a massive festival of brassy music, salsa dancing, fried food, t-shirt stands, ass-grabbing by teen hoodlums in do-rags, and no doubt anything else they can think of that will reinforce the worst kind of Hispanic stereotypes.

So far most of the city's leaders are on board, however in a rare and stunning moment of lucidity, Cuban-American activist Ramon Saul Sanchez is warning that a giant party celebrating the death of a Third World dictator might not do much to help Miami shake its image of actually being part of the Third World itself. Sanchez also brings up an obvious point: the death of Fidel won't mean the death of a communist government in Cuba; Castro's brother Raul will simply take the reins and it'll be business as usual. Rejoicing in the death of Fidel is like celebrating the resignation of George W. Bush; sure it may be fun for a few minutes, but then, well, Cheney.

So as you're watching this weekend's Super Bowl^(TM), remember to give your travel agent a call and let him know that you want to make plans for South Florida's real bowl party. Just make sure he knows that the dates are subject to change. This is Castro we're talking about; he may seem sick now, but the man will likely still be alive long after the Orange Bowl has crumbled into dust.

(*Sponsored by Gus Machado Buick, WQBA, Westland Mall, Alpha 66, Marisleysis's Hair Salon and Elian Separation-anxiety Psychotherapy Center, the Gloria Estefan Plastic Surgery Fund and Zapatos de Hombre of Little Havana.)

Cue the Idiot

From my lips to God's ears apparently.

WSJ.com: Typist Sues Law School

Reality Check

Part II: "I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing."

Wolf Blitzer: "How do you respond to some Republicans in congress who are now seriously questioning your credibility, because of the blunders and failures (in Iraq)?"

Dick Cheney: "Wolf, Wolf, I simply don't accept the premise of your question. I think it's just hogwash."

It was to be expected that no one in the vaunted halls of the Capitol would use the kind of language the situation demanded, but Senate Majority Whip Dick Durbin of Illinois at least came close: he called Dick Cheney "delusional." The truth of the matter of course is that Cheney blew past "delusional" about twenty-seven rosey assessments ago, and has now reached the level of "terrifyingly batshit crazy."

On Wednesday, Cheney sat down with CNN's Wolf Blitzer for what was billed as an "exclusive" interview -- which seemed like an odd thing to say about a conversation with a sitting Vice President of the United States, until you considered the fact that when it comes to granting an audience, Cheney rarely strays outside of the friendly softball-field of the Fox News Channel. I suppose it's fair then to claim that the interview was indeed an exclusive opportunity for the portion of the country under the age of seventy-five to finally see a one-on-one with the elusive, mythical vice president. The fact that it was treated to such an unprecedented display of unhinged lunacy can only be called the icing on the cake. By now, most of us are used to Cheney's hallucinatory proclamations about the state of affairs in Iraq -- past, present and future -- as well as his angry mutterings about the media's unwillingness to report the "truth" as only he sees it. Wednesday's performance however, was something new altogether; it was such a frightening denial of reality coupled with an unfathomable tone of defiant demagoguery as to almost be cartoonish -- with Cheney taking on the mannerisms and language of a Bond villain.

When asked about a possible congressional resolution to oppose the Bush Administration's plan to send more than twenty-thousand new U.S. troops to Iraq, Cheney replied simply, "It won't stop us."

All that was missing was a white cat on his lap.

Normally, this kind of delusional and messianic rambling would be laughable -- and make no mistake, you've heard crazy talk just like this coming from the guys on the sidewalk who carry on lengthy conversations with telephone poles -- but when it escapes the mouth of the man who has a say in sending American kids to their deaths, it's nothing short of chilling. There's certainly no denying that Cheney's found himself marginalized as of late -- by those in his own party, by friends like John McCain, by the president he once stood side-by-side with -- and given the fact that literally nothing he has predicted or claimed about our adventure in Iraq has come to fruition, it's hard to be surprised; by this point, Cheney's peers are viewing him less as the menacing Darth Vader and more as the disoriented Dr. Weird of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Once again though, it's inadvisable to doubt for a moment that Cheney truly believes Iraq is in great shape and that all that's needed to seal the deal are a few more good men.

There's a conspiracy theory being bandied about by a few liberal bloggers which intimates that Cheney's being allowed to publicly hang himself and will soon be quietly asked to resign for "health reasons" -- the supposed endgame being that Bush will appoint Condi Rice to the VP's seat, thereby putting the Republicans in a better position for the 2008 election and, more importantly, securing Bush's legacy beyond simply being the president who got us into an unnecessary war, brought a volatility to the Middle-East that threatens the safety of the world, and possibly ruined America's good name for decades to come. Those who subscribe to this theory believe that the recent appointment of John Negroponte to the position of Deputy Secretary of State undeniably foreshadows this scenario.

I however hold no such hope that Cheney will be sidelined. It hasn't happened yet; I doubt it will happen at any point during the Bush presidency. The man whose unwillingness to accept, or inability to grasp reality, will more than likely continue to play at least some role in both the future of this country and the lives of its soldier -- and that's simply staggering.

At the end of the CNN interview, Wolf Blitzer asked Cheney about the criticism some Christian Conservative family groups have leveled at his pregnant daughter, Mary Cheney, and her plans to raise the child with her lesbian partner of fourteen years. Cheney stoically responded by saying, "Frankly, I think you're out of line with that question."

At that point, I truly expected the floor to open up and Blitzer's chair to drop into a shark tank.

Reality Check

Part I: "I Can Do Anything I Want -- And So Can You."

"Sammy Davis wrote a book called 'Yes I Can.' The other day I saw his first television show and I sent him a wire that said, 'No you can't.'"

-- Frank Sinatra

Quite possibly the biggest lie that America has ever been willing to swallow whole is the seemingly benign assertion that anyone is capable of anything. From our first grade teachers, to our coaches, to Will Smith's uber-motivated Dad-of-the-Year in The Pursuit of Sappyness, the message that you, yes you, can do whatever you set your mind to is practically encoded into our country's collective DNA. By the time Tony Robbins has screamed in your face that Christ-like ascendancy is within your reach and television commercials have proclaimed that there's no need for you to tolerate even the most minor of inconveniences ever, you'll truly be convinced that there isn't a force in the universe powerful enough to stop you from making your most outlandish desires come true.

Except that there is; it's of course called reality.

If you watch American Idol -- and judging by the ratings, you'd rather have elective eye surgery than miss it -- you know that reality occasionally goes by a more specific name: Simon. With several seasons under its belt and presumably all of its potential talent pool now well-aware of the basics of how the show works, you'd think that only the most delusional of legitimate contestants wouldn't understand what it takes to get past the first round (translation: what it takes to avoid having their egos pummeled into paste at the hands of TV's snottiest British stereotype). Yet once again this year, thousands have lined-up and waited and hoped and dreamed and prayed -- only to have a figurative bucket of ice water thrown on their lofty aspirations by Simon and company (nee, by reality) who inform them in no uncertain terms that they suck. The reaction to hearing this "news" is typically as predictable as an episode of Three's Company*: denial; outrage; more denial; denial coupled with the contestant's insistence that he or she does in fact know how to sing; psychosis; bitter proclamations that the contestant will make it as a singer despite having a voice that sounds like a hyena being put into a wood-chipper; defiant overconfidence; more psychosis; crying.

And all the while anyone with two ears and three IQ points watches the unnecessary drama unfold and asks him or herself: "Wow, did you really think you were gonna make it? Have you ever seen the goddamned show?"

The reality of course is that reality is simply ignored or discarded in favor of the age-old affirmation that anything is possible if you just follow those dreams and believe hard enough. Understand, there are certainly cases in which -- after no small amount of hard work and intense training -- a person or group can achieve seemingly impossible goals; this is known as the human spirit. Unfortunately, there are just as many cases in which the facts of a given situation -- the regrettable truth and undeniable limitations -- are completely disregarded in favor of wishful thinking and grandiose aspirations; this is known as human folly.

When the latter rears its head on American Idol -- as it so often does -- it's usually just good for a laugh.

When it becomes the foundation on which far more significant endeavors are based, it's dangerous as all hell.

We're all well aware by now that those deciding truly important issues -- the judges not of American Idol, but of our nation's courts -- occasionally find themselves burdened by obstinate men who claim that it's their God-given right to become waitresses at Hooters; or thirty-three-year-old white women who insist that they're entitled to a place in the Harlem Boys Choir; or quadriplegics determined to "break the intolerance barrier" by joining a professional hockey team. At the core of ridiculous efforts like these is one common misconception: that because America was founded on the principle that all are created equal, all actually turn out equal. It doesn't quite work that way. Each person is equal in human dignity; human abilities are another subject altogether. Whether by an act of nature, a particular circumstance, or the overall intrusion of reality, one person may be forced to confront limitations which another doesn't. Using the legal system to try to overcome these limitations -- to level the playing field -- is just crap. I'm never going to play power forward for the Knicks; I've come to terms with that and I'm damn sure not going to go to court to demand that I be allowed to. There are some things I need to just shut the hell up and accept that I can't do.

Not long ago, I was talking to a friend of mine at a bar. She works with the blind, helping them to conquer various obstacles and lead better, more fulfilling lives -- obviously, a very noble vocation. After awhile though, she mentioned the core belief at the center of her efforts: she wholeheartedly insisted that there's nothing people with sight can do that their blind counterparts can't. I gave her a slightly bemused look, then said, "Sure there is -- they can see." After dodging a glass-full of gin and tonic, I proceeded to get a protracted lecture on what a closed-minded, right-wing bigot I am -- but as far as I was concerned, it didn't change the facts: a blind person can't do anything -- at this moment in time and at this stage of technology -- that absolutely relies on the ability to see, and any effort based on an assumption to the contrary is a disaster waiting to happen. "The first time I get into a car accident and I see a blind guy get out of the other car -- I'm kicking somebody's ass," I told my friend.

Her reaction, as it turns out, looked a hell of a lot like those rejected singers on American Idol -- minus the part about the hyena in the wood chipper.

Tomorrow, Part II -- "I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing": The Most Hilarious/Terrifying Interview in Television History

(*There's a misunderstanding of some kind. Hijinks ensue.)

The Part That Never Comes Home

I wasn't friends with Marta Mejia when it happened.

I had seen her around the halls of my high school -- occasionally noticing the inexhaustible energy she expended as she bounded to and from class; casually glancing at the perpetual smile which seemed to be glued to her cherubic face -- the kind of sweetly adorable and completely approachable look that guaranteed a constant flock of friends and admirers; the same look that guaranteed no small measure of aloof avoidance from a cynical and detatched teen delinquent like myself. As far as I was concerned, Marta and I may as well have been from different planets. I felt this way despite knowing almost nothing about her beyond what I could gather from pressing past her on the way to Algebra: I knew she was cute; I had heard that her mother drove one of the mini-buses that ferried students to and from school; I had seen her recently celebrating a fourteenth birthday. Beyond that, nothing. She was just another kid.

That is, until the night of November 28th, 1984.

It would be somewhere around two years later that I'd find myself lying face-down on my bed, clutching a pillow, crying in a way I never thought possible -- feeling more pain, anger and helplessness than I believed my young life had the capacity to contain. I'd try to grasp what it's like to go to sleep one night and wake up to find that everything you love, everything you are, has been utterly obliterated. I'd want to know why a young girl who deserved a lifetime of happiness instead awoke one morning to a frightening, alien existence -- a treacherous shadow world, spawned by a few hours of infinite madness and violence. I'd want to know how someone finds a way back to the light -- back to life. To this day, many of those questions remain unanswered.

By the time Marta laid out her clothes for the following school-day, kissed her stepfather good-night and tucked herself into bed on the night of November 28th 1984-- her mother was already dead. No one's sure how long Jose Mejia, Marta's father, had been stalking his ex-wife, Estilita Mejia Kossakowski -- but on that night whatever rage and obsession had been building inside of him finally exploded into unfathomable violence. Police say he grabbed Estilita outside of the bank where she worked part-time, drove her to a remote part of North Miami-Dade County and shot her with a .357 Magnum -- over and over again. He then drove to the home Estilita shared with her children and new husband, Ronald Kossakowski. He knocked on the door. When Kossakowski opened it, he was shot three times. Police say he was dead before he hit the floor. Jose Mejia's final act was to drive to a parking lot and put a single bullet into his own head.

Next to him on the passenger's seat: binoculars, extra ammunition -- and a crucifix.

The following morning Marta jolted up in bed, realizing that she had overslept. She ran out into the living room to ask why her stepfather hadn't woken her as usual. She found his body lying in a lake of blood -- the front door still open.

When the police arrived, they pieced together what had happened -- connected the bodies like dots across the northern part of the county -- and gave Marta and her seventeen-year-old sister Ana the harrowing news: everyone was gone; there was no one left but them.

It would take the better part of a year for Marta to return to school; she would return in name only. The Marta Mejia everyone had known before the night of November 28th, 1984 no longer existed. The sad, vacant, enigmatic young woman who took her place seemed more like a living ghost than an actual flesh-and-blood human being. The sweet smile was still there, on occasion, but there was no denying the effort that went into producing it or the reaction it garnered from those around her -- the friends and classmates whose interactions with her became labored and technical, as if they were at times dealing with a wounded puppy, at times with a nuclear warhead. Plenty of people tried to reach out to Marta, but it was obvious even to the casual observer that she was showing them what they wanted to see, telling them what they wanted to hear, expressing perfunctory gratitude for their concern and their sympathies, and moving on. Wherever the real Marta had taken up residence, it was hidden far from sight and away from where anyone could find it -- could find her. Wherever she had found safety -- if she had at all -- she'd made it untouchable.

I can't remember when or how Marta and I became close friends. I also can't remember at exactly what point I fell in love with her.

The event that claimed Marta's childhood has been on my mind quite a bit recently -- jostled free from a good number of long-buried memories by the story of Shawn Hornbeck. On October 6th, 2002, Shawn was kidnapped, allegedly by a man named Michael Devlin. As far as anyone can tell, he was held captive for more than four years -- living in an unfamiliar town, masquerading as Devlin's own son -- only to be reunited with his real family when Devlin was arrested for kidnapping another young boy. The details of Shawn Hornbeck's strange ordeal -- the four missing years -- are just now coming to light, mercilessly pursued by a media machine honed to recognize a mind-blowing story when it sees one and to subsequently beat that story to death. For four years, the kidnapped boy played the part of Shawn Devlin not only for his captor, but for everyone he met and anyone with whom he interacted. Those who knew the boy during that time say that the ruse was impenetrable. Police stopped "Shawn Devlin" on the street; friends and families pointed out that he bore a striking resemblance to the missing boy on the TV -- the one whose name held Shawn's true identity; all the while, the kid who had been born into a new life just a few years previously laughed off the comparisons and the coincidences, insisting that he was indeed who he claimed to be.

Now, after four years of convincingly living a lie, he's returned to the life he was ruthlessly snatched away from when he was only eleven years old.

But as with Marta, I'm left wondering just how much of Shawn has truly come back.

Shawn Hornbeck was a relatively normal kid when he disappeared into that unfamiliar shadow world; he's returned not to the comforting environment he remembered, but to one in which he's the center of a vortex of cameras, strobing flashes and potential studio audiences. He went from being a typical Midwestern child, to being a kidnap victim, to being a celebrity. Shawn holds a secret that he may never be willing to allow anyone near -- and yet it's a secret everyone wants access to.

Late last week, Shawn's parents, Craig and Pam Akers -- either star-struck or shell-shocked -- agreed to appear on the Oprah Winfrey show, and to bring Shawn with them. For an hour, in full view of a phalanx of video cameras and by proxy millions of Americans, they allowed Oprah to prod and probe the most intimate details of Shawn's four-year nightmare. The boy had been back in "normal" society for no less than a week, and there was Oprah -- all synthetic concern and overabundant charm -- asking for an admission that young Shawn had in fact been sexually abused during his captivity. Shawn faced the camera as his parents laid his torturous ordeal bare for the world to see; the kinds of experiences best left to revelation at the hands of counselors and family therapists -- the things a young boy might not want another living soul to know -- were made a matter of public record.

The interview ended with Oprah glancing at Shawn, smiling, and off-handedly quipping, "Ah, you're still cute." In defense of something so gruesomely exploitative, Oprah's communications department released a statement which read, "Oprah, who has years of experience interviewing children who have survived trauma, respectfully posed questions first to his parents and aunt -- and then to Shawn with his family present -- so that they could share their message of hope with other families who have missing children."

A more sickening and transparent justification would be difficult to imagine.

And it won't end with Oprah.

I don't know Shawn. I certainly haven't earned the right or privilege of access to personal traumas from which he may never fully recover. That said, I couldn't help but be curious as to how he might possibly deal with those traumas being publicly peeled back layer-by-layer in an attempt to reach the raw nerve at the center, as an inquisitor -- in this case the self-appointed authority on any and all forms of human experience -- simultaneously satisfied a personal agenda, a sponsor's greed and the public's supposed right to know.

But then I remembered Marta.

I remembered her telling me, two years after the maelstrom of brutality that left her innocence shattered, how she became adept at telling her counselors what she knew they wanted to hear; how she played a shell-game with her true self -- constantly moving it and hiding it away; how she allowed nothing to affect her -- no one to reach her; how she, quite simply, wasn't home anymore.

And so I wondered if Shawn was really home -- or if he ever would be.

A couple of hours before I laid across my bed and cried out in pain for Marta -- my friend, the girl I found myself caring about more than I had ever intended to -- we sat in my car together, staring out at the calm waters of Biscayne Bay. It was then that she touched my arm and gave me that beautiful, heartbreaking smile -- and said something to me that haunts me to this day. She said, "The other night I took an entire bottle of sleeping pills, just because I happened to have enough to kill myself. I figured, what the hell -- nothing matters anymore."

There was no drama. There was no anguish. There was just a simple statement of fact.

Marta was alone in the world. No matter how many people believed that they might have gotten through to the lost little girl at the center of the labyrinth, in the end all they found was an illusion. Maybe that's what I had found.

I don't know what happened to that little girl -- that young woman. I hope she finally found a way home.

I hope the same thing for Shawn Hornbeck.