I am not one who is renowned for his patience. In fact, just the other day someone came to me and said, “You know Gary, you are just not renowned for your patience.” If patience is a virtue then my lack of patience makes me rather iniquitous. I can find any situation in which patience is required so vexing that I either need to destroy that which is causing my anger or I have to walk away completely, scorning the subject of my hatred.

This was the case with my study of ballet. Ballet takes patience that is beyond my reason. Just using the words needed to describe the positions in which my body was twisted would send a rising bubble of hatred toward my dance master, Jean-Claude DesCretin. Master DesCretin would tell me, “Garee! Zhu must do ze plié wiz more of ze, how do you say? Talent?” No, I couldn’t plié. I couldn’t pirouette nor pas de chat. Once, Master DesCretin said to me that I move like a horse, which is true because my art needed to be destroyed much like a racehorse with testicular cramps. So, of course, I quit ballet. It was too hard and I wasn’t good at it fast enough. Anything worth doing is worth being good at without any talent, practice or diligence whatsoever.

So I switched to music. What I wanted to do was form a sixties-style Rock/Pop quartet like the Dave Clarke Five, except with four people. I find that the dynamic of a quintet is quite exhausting. Quartets work better because there’s a better chance that I’ll be considered the cute one instead of the simmering, angry one. So, I analyzed the music and discovered that the Harpsichord was utilized quite heavily and decided that it was the instrument for me. Besides, how many harpsichordists are there out there? 90 professionally? Tops? With that kind of ratio I figured I had a distinct chance of becoming one of the top 100 harpsichord players around.

So I bought a Harpsichord. It wasn’t easy to come by. I had to kidnap a Hungarian orchestra master in order to get one. But, once I had my harpsichord I felt my dream of being a retro-sixties rock star were close at hand. The next difficulty I had to overcome was finding an instructor who was well versed in the musical harpsichord styles of the 1960s. There were none. So I settled for a local piano teacher named Francesca Brannigan. Now, normally, I wouldn’t work with someone named Francesca. But I was desperate.

This woman was a taskmaster! When I sat down, I tried to hammer out the melody to “Fixing A Hole” by the Beatles. However, Ms. Brannigan (who did not think it was funny when I called her Laura) had different ideas. She insisted that I learn this antiquated dreck by Handel and Bach. Screw that! I had groupies to score. Half way through playing some awful music accompanied by an Oboe I just lost it and ended up tying Ms. Brannigan to the piano bench using the strings that comprised a D Chord.

With those hopes dashed, I turned to the other artistic love of my life, Yiddish theater. Now, being raised Irish Catholic might be considered a draw back, I marketed myself as a Goy actor. I figured that, in the very least, I could be cast as the token gentile. I auditioned for many roles with the Jewish Community Center Players but was told that I didn’t have what it took to play the lead role of Reuven Malther in their Yiddish adaptation of Chiam Potok’s The Chosen. I felt that, with my lack of background in the Jewish religion, Jewish intellectualism and Zionism that I would be the perfect person to play the confused son of an intellectual, Zionist father who befriends a Hassidic boy.

The director, Rachel Cohen, thought differently. In fact, she kept reminding me when I showed up for rehearsals that I a) was not cast in the play and b) the casting was only open to members of the center. Now, I admit that I was not a member of their community center, though I had gone swimming there many times with my friend Michael Rubinowitz when we were young. Rachel saw things differently. So, I decided to no longer try my hand at Yiddish acting and never set foot in the theater again. Now, for the record, I want to state that I had made my decision long before they issued the restraining order and am sticking to my story that the reason I was standing on their stage wearing only Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and carrying a Kielbasa was a simple misunderstanding of whether or not I was invited to the cast pajama party grill out.

My point is, I do not do very well with the concept of waiting. Benjamin Disraeli once said, “Patience is a necessary ingredient of genius.” I agree with Disraeli’s comments, though I enjoy his album with Cream much better. But, if this is the case then I am a babbling idiot.

I bring all this up because this morning I purchased the Super-Duper-Platinum-Jewel Encrusted Edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. True, we do currently own the film already; we needed to get this copy for several reasons. First, it has a higher bit rate on the digital transfer. My wife was adamant that she must have a completely clean version of the film. Second, it’s loaded with amazing commentaries, features, extras and charismatic trolls. Third, it contains thirty minutes of extra footage, which is supposed to flesh out the story a bit more, just like the books. Fourth, Tom Bombadil is still not in the film. Fifth, it comes with these extra groovy bookends designed by the FX team from the film.

Why did I buy the other version of the disc if I knew this one was coming out? Well, because I’m not patient, as mentioned earlier. Plus, the first disc contained the original cut of the film and this new version is a “director’s cut”. I need to have both.

So how does patience come into play here? Well, the damn thing has been sitting on my desk all day long and I’ve been dying to open it. I want to feel the full weighted glory that is the Argonath bookends. I want to watch all the extras and cavort in the wonder and mystery of Middle Earth, a world in which I spent much time as a child.

But I can’t. Because over time my wife has proven that she is the Lord of the Rings Fan. She deserves to be the one to open this DVD and it’s her one obsession and it’s only fair, blah blah blah.

It’s taunting me. It’s begging me to open it. Maybe if I steamed open the plastic and just stuck it in the player a little bit she wouldn’t mind . . .

Right. And I have a death wish.