The Curious Case of Bob Dacey...

If you remember the abomination of a film that was David Fincher's take on the F. Scott Fitzgerald story -- you'll recall that Benjamin Button, the tale's main character, was a man who lived his life in reverse.

He spent his early years as an old man, and his later years as a young man.

As bad as the movie adaptation was -- the premise of the story is undeniably interesting.

And so is the case of Bob Dacey...the since deceased coach, and teacher, and director, and beloved community figure, and mentor, and...predator.

As is the case with many or most child molesters -- one can speculate that, in all likelihood, Bobby Dacey was likely a victim of unspeakable horrors at the hands of some sick and perverted adult when he was a boy.

The boy version of Bob Dacey gets my sympathy, if that was indeed his experience -- being a victim of a predatory adult who wanted to make him a plaything.

Maybe he felt a bit like Benjamin Button -- his childhood spent feeling much older than his years...forced to face certain despicable truths during a time that should be relished through innocence.

Certainly, as he grew into adulthood, the Bob Dacey that I knew, and that countless others knew, was seemingly enjoying the experience of being a younger man than his years determined. He had a way with young folks -- a natural ability to bond with them, to reach them and to communicate with them on their own level.

Indeed, "Dace", as we all came to know him, was the type of teacher that was comfortable to interact with. At twelve years of age, when I knew him, teachers were old and weird and crusty...and certainly not the types of people whom I cared to have much interaction with.

But, Dace...Dace was different. He's the man who got me hooked on acting -- he directed plays that I performed in...his drama class was one of the few classes I would look forward to attending.

He had a youthful charisma to him...the charm and the vibrancy of the rare kind of adult that a preteen actually enjoys being around and working with and spending time with.

And so it all makes sense, when it comes time to reflect.

There are still non-believers out there -- people who refuse to accept the truth of the disgusting things that Dace did to a handful of his more vulnerable students throughout his long tenure in Waltham Public Schools.

And I can understand that, in theory.

That's the nature of a predator -- they're, usually, altogether lovable and beloved. They're charming. They're charismatic. They possess a friendly and affable exterior in order to better serve their darker intentions.

They are the ones, when the headlines hit -- exposing their sinister acts and indecent deeds against the innocent children that they're entrusted to protect, who prompt the exclamation from the majority of people that goes:

"NO FUCKING WAY!"

Yes fucking way. And then the yarn gets spun, and it all makes sense. The pieces start fitting together in all of their tragic truthfulness...and we're further prompted to exclaim:

"OF COURSE! WE SHOULD'VE SEEN IT LONG AGO!"

Hindsight is 20/20, of course...and Dace's great manipulation was hiding in plain sight, in full view of his fans...his students and his colleagues.

What better place to hide?

Here was a man who, I can say with a clear conscience, I truly liked.
But then -- he never molested me.
And my sympathy for the adult version of Bob Dacey doesn't exist.

It just cannot.
Does not compute.

As the yarn of the story unravels further, a member of the public school system, a teacher (in good standing), who shall remain anonymous in order to protect them from the red tape that surrounds this scandal, tells me a story of a young man who had close interactions with one Bob Dacey.

The boy was from a single parent household. His mom was hardworking, if not always very available to supervise her children.
Enter Dace -- the lovable, and sympathetic 'good guy' who takes a shine to the young man.
This boy, all of 13 or 14 years old, gets involved with Bob's drama program.
They hit it off.
Dace assumes the father-figure roll, and to the outside observer -- the relationship looks, well -- pretty nice, actually.

This is how the predator operates.

Dace wants closer interaction with the boy.
How can he achieve this?
The answer is simple:

He'll start dating the boy's mother.

And so he does.

Mom still has to work long hours, so now, Dace, being a trusted new figure in the eyes of this hard-working parent, is allowed to be in the household when she isn't there.

Now he can keep an eye on Junior.

Mom's new boyfriend.
The surrogate parent and new-fangled protector.

Dace.

The Predator.

The Child Molester.

The tact and smoothness of his manipulation game is textbook...and it's enough to make one shiver.

He breaks up with Mom just a few months later. But the foundation of hidden motive built upon their brief romance is already laid.

It was all just a farce.

He digs in like a tick -- buying the boy expensive gifts...springing for a limousine trip to a middle school dance...charming him and coercing him with material wealth in order to better serve his dark wants.

When the headlines hit -- we find out that Dace did this to more than one boy, as is often the case.
He preyed upon the downtrodden kids -- kids of the unsupervised variety...kids from single-parent households...kids whose families were in poor socioeconomic standing.

Victim, Michael Phillips, describes Dace's promise of cash money...and an opportunity to come get secretly touched at his place by a beautiful MAFIA masseuse.

That's right...Mafia. Gangsters. He told the boys that he was connected with gangsters. Too cool.
Dace was no slouch in knowing how to successfully seduce impressionable young boys.

Money. The Mafia. A beautiful, mysterious masseuse.

Most of us know the details of what happened when the boys showed up, knocking on Dace's door.

For those who don't -- money changed hands...we'll call it preemptive "hush" money.
The boys were paid fifty bucks apiece...and led to a darkened room to wait for this masseuse to enter.
And someone did enter.
Dace did -- dressed up, complete with fake fingernails and woman's wig, he then molested the boys.
There never was anything real regarding any Mafia connections -- but Bob's crimes were precisely organized and systematic and methodical.

Beyond the headlines and the scandal of those acts...beyond the believers, and the non-believers alike...and beyond Bob Dacey's timely death before he stood to face his charges in a court of law -- years later, a new, fresh scandal arises from this disgusting pile of ashes and filth.

When this was all going on...for however many years it was going on for...PEOPLE KNEW.

That's right.

PEOPLE KNEW.

And I'm not talking about the victims or the perpetrator of these horrendous acts...I'm talking about administrators in the public school system.
They knew.
They knew what Bob Dacey was doing, and they didn't do anything about it.
Deplorable.

At least that's what the allegations state.

So I don't get sued for libel -- I'll put it in print right now -- so far, these allegations are just that -- allegations. Nothing has been proven...but the word around the campfire is this:

One man in particular knew about all this shit.

John Graceffa.

John Graceffa -- longtime principal of Waltham High School...boss and close friend of Bob Dacey...anointed high protector of the students who walked through the hallways and in and out of the classrooms of that big, brick building on Lexington Street...he KNEW about accusations of indecent child abuse made against that beloved coach and teacher and mentor and whatever the fuck, and he didn't do anything about it.

He fucking knew, and he didn't do anything about it. He tried to sweep it under the proverbial rug...in hopes that it would just 'go away'.

He knew.

Say it ain't so, John.

But it seems like it just may be.

Of the horror that permeates this case...this scandal...there is a small ray of light in all of it.

And so, I extend kudos to the Keohane family -- if the rumors are true, both Dan and his wife are the only decent folks in this school system who had the guts to confront our former principal about troubling interactions that they had heard about regarding Bob Dacey and children.
The Keohanes are the only true heroes in this case, if there are any, and if the allegations prove valid against John Graceffa.
On more than one occasion, Coach Keohane and his wife contacted Principal Graceffa, demanding him to confront greasy rumors that Dace was having inappropriate contact with students.

If the allegations are true -- it is reported that Graceffa assured them that he would look into it...and that he would take care of it...and to keep Dace away from the student(s) in question...and so on.

But he didn't.

For shame.

Instead of pining for a seat on the Waltham School Committee this month...maybe John Graceffa should look for a job as an administrator at Penn State. I hear they have some job openings...and I'm sure he'd fit right in. Or maybe he should check out possible opportunities across the pond in the Vatican. They'd likely love his lack of ethical initiative.

Let it be known that if the allegations are true, and it comes to light in a court of law that John Graceffa covered up these egregious acts of criminal, sexual assault in order to avoid an 'unpleasant scene' with one of his best and brightest and most beloved teachers...then...then...

well...then...I don't know.

I don't know what then.

I hope the victims milk this administration for every penny they can, though cash cannot buy back the innocence of these boys.
I hope John Graceffa is haunted by his part in all of it...and I hope that he has the guts to apologize to the people whose trust he has shattered.
I hope another Dace never weasels their way in to a position where they can get close enough to take advantage of young people who cannot protect themselves.
I hope the parties involved can gain some sort of closure.
I hope if Anthony Piantedosi ever rents out his downstairs apartment to another teacher and sees students coming and going from the place that it raises some concern.
I hope that there are more people in the community like the Keohane family, who have always been good examples of good citizens, with good morals, who care more about the safety of children than they do about bad press.

I hope that none of the allegations are true, truthfully...
but I'm pretty sure that they probably are.

And maybe those are all lofty hopes.

Not everyone who is victimized by a child molester grows up to commit the same acts.
It is important to note that.

And though I don't have a shred of sympathy for the man at the center of all of this...shit -- Bob Dacey -- I can say with an honest heart and a clear conscience, that I hope that he has finally found some peace.

John Graceffa has been quoted as saying that he "doesn't recall" whether or not Coach Keohane came to him about complaints regarding Dace.

Bullshit.

Either it happened, or it didn't.

You don't RECALL?

Does he expect people to believe that such accusations could be lost in his mind and unable to recall as just any ol' casual memory would be?

Really?

Allegations about his friend and employee about the guy MOLESTING CHILDREN?

Huh.

It's a typical response in cases such as these, when the people involved in the cover up want to cover their asses.

He wouldn't have to mislead anyone if he had done his job, and taken some action to cover those boys asses.

The pun is intended.

More will be revealed.

regarding: The New Year...

If I only take one shower this year -- the one I just took is one for the ages.
I was thorough in there, brothers and sisters.
I scrubbed my body down something fierce.
The soap was shea-buttered...the shampoo almost completely natural, and scented with the essence of rose.
Shit -- I even conditioned my half-inch hair before rinsing off and toweling dry.

I washed 2011 completely away, I think. And it was lovely. REFRESHING.

Though I don't normally view anything in long-term increments, the year of our lord, 2011, was a big one. At least, I think it was. I guess it was.

Now we've arrived here at 2012.

This is the year the Mayans warned us about. Something is coming, come late December. It may just be 'The End Of Days.'

In a recent poll, 58% of Americans reported that if the Mayans are right -- they expect that the culmination of the destruction of mankind will be due to a...
...wait for it...

a ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE.

I'm serious. People actually said that.

Now -- I'm not sure who conducted this poll, or who their sampling frame consisted of, but if their results tell us anything, it's this:
Humans are resilient.

And who wouldn't hope for a zombie apocalypse, when you view the issue at hand with objectivity?
A zombie apocalypse, really, beats the hell out of worldwide famine and starvation, epidemics and pandemics that paramedics cannot manage, nuclear destruction leading to toxic radiation poisoning of everything with a pulse or a root, carbon levels in the atmosphere magnifying ultraviolet rays to melt the ice caps and boil the oceans 'til the seas rise up and wash us all away...

The grim list of, what are likely to be more accurate possibilities for potential apocalypse, goes on and on and on.

With a zombie apocalypse, however -- we'd at least have the chance to go down fighting.

As best as we can understand -- zombies mainly have real power due to their numbers.
They're notoriously slow and clumsy...so in a one-on-one fight, they do not have much advantage over a healthy human being.
If you can strike them or blast them in the head -- they go down. And they go down hard.

I'm a peace junkie, myself.

I've been in some violent situations in my day...mainly hand-to-hand combat scenarios -- and I didn't enjoy them any...and nor did I fare too well in them.

I learned this much, regarding physical violence: whether you win or lose, you don't really solve much when you try to solve something with violence.
You end up bruised and scraped and scratched and sore...and typically more angry and confused about the conflict that you were trying to fix.

That said -- I do possess...and we probably all do...an inherent instinct inside of me that tells me...if I truly HAD to...if my own life, or the life of a loved one depended on it...I could certainly KILL.
I'm not saying that it's a desire of mine...but if the situation called for it...I'm sure that I could do it, and do it well.

However -- I'd feel bad about killing another human being.

But...I do think that I might be able to learn to feel pretty good about killing zombies.

I picture myself dirty and scuffed and sweaty and HARD and cold -- toting a semi-automatic M14 assault rifle, and firing hollow point shells into the craniums of the unholy-undead...and in this visualization, I'm filled with ecstatic, murderous rage, bordering on hysterical joy, in knowing that I'm fulfilling a VERY important role with every spent, smoking shell, for my own self-preservation and the preservation of the lives around me -- the good lives...the living ones...the human lives.

We'd all be in it together, fighting in unison, in a zombie apocalypse.

Wouldn't it be nice to all have a REAL common enemy?

I'm not talking about terrorists or Wall Street or activists or the police or the Iranians or the Christians or the Muslims or the Jews or the teachers or NPR or the ACLU or the Tea Party or the bleeding-heart liberals or the gays or the straights or the Congressman or the Senate or the homeless or the credit-lenders or the communists or the women or the blacks or the lepers or the cripples or the Taliban or the cartels or the immigrants, or Obama or Bachmann, or that sleazeball Mitt Romney, or that nutjob Ron Paul.

I'm not talking about the 1% or the other 99%.

I'm talking about the fucking zombies here.

And I'm talking about the ONE HUNDRED PERCENT -- of ALL of us...in all of our imperfect perfection...united and allied and together at last...kicking that filthy zombie ass all up and down the Main Streets and highways and bi-ways of the towns that we call home.
The HUMAN towns.
OUR towns.
Anyplace, USA...and Anyplace, Planet Earth.

There ain't no room for zombies in the land of the living.
I know that much.

But there is room for all of the rest of us.
Or at least -- there certainly should be.

Maybe that's what the poll is getting at.

Maybe somewhere deep down, in our heart-of-hearts -- that's truly what people want:

An imaginary foe, so as that we can all stop fighting amongst ourselves, in the face of more real and troubling issues that, if left untreated and unchecked, could actually lead us on a road to premature destruction.

Zombies are a catalyst, perhaps -- but in the likely chance that the Mayans are wrong, and that the dead don't rise from their graves like so many unwelcome Anti-Christs, intent on splitting our skulls and devouring our brains...come hell or high water...well -- what then?

What catalyst then?

Surely one exists beyond our own imaginations.

Have a safe and happy New Year, brothers and sisters.

And always remember...

It is our resilience that makes us great -- we humans are good in a crisis...and there's something to be said for that.

But beyond our drive for unflappability -- it's our capacity for conscious love that makes us truly special.

Real love is life recognizing life...and choosing not to destroy it.

We all look better scrubbed clean and soft without scratches or scrapes.

And that's just how I am right now.

2011 is washed down the drain.

I'm clean as a whistle now, ready for anything that comes down the pike here in ol' 2012.

I put on my clean clothes, and I hope that the righteous shower I just took was one of many more to come in the coming year...