In the spring of 1968, I wanted to go to college.
I had spent the summer after high school traveling around the western states—hiking, hitchhiking, finding pieces of myself. By the time I got back, I was too late to register for any college, even my local community college.
So I spent the fall semester of 1967 in the public library, determined to read the entire philosophy and religion section. I wrestled with the Upanishads and the Vedas, managed Buddhism fairly well, and got completely stuck on Oahspe and comparative philosophy.
Naturally, when college finally came around, I decided to major in philosophy. Great job prospects in that field.
By spring semester, I tried again. I was still too late to register for the state school, but the local community college allowed me to enroll in two trial classes—just enough to be considered a student, and to get a draft exemption.
I signed up for a humanities class and a philosophy class, both taught by the same professor: Dr. Pasquale Anania.
I’d better like this professor, I thought.
I didn’t like him.
I loved him.
He was unlike anyone I had ever met—radical, unpredictable, and absurdly well-read. He had two PhDs in the hard sciences—not the kind you can buy from a diploma mill. He was despised by much of the faculty, which only added to his mystique.
Years later, I found out why.
They thought he was lazy. Pompous.
A liar.
And in academia, lying is as unforgivable as plagiarism.
He had a teaching style that baffled the administration. Official outlines and handouts, yes—but if no one asked questions, he’d lecture on whatever was on his mind.
And his mind wandered.
That’s what I loved.
I learned so much that wasn’t on the syllabus.
One day he walked in and asked:
“How do you paint a wall?”
He had spent the weekend watching professional painters repaint his home. And what he saw didn’t match logic.
“There are five obvious ways,” he said. “Left to right. Right to left. Top to bottom. Bottom to top. Or center outward.”
But none of the pros used those.
Instead, they’d apply a thick blob of paint somewhere, and then every stroke moved toward it.
You paint into the paint. Never drag it away.
The wall is fully covered in a single coat.
I am aware of Kant, Locke, and Aristotle.
I do not use their philosophies.
But I have painted dozens of walls—with professional results.
I studied under Dr. Anania for years. And I heard all the stories:
Speechwriter for Harry Truman.
Shipwrecked during WWII.
Mother a famous opera singer at the Met.
Unbelievable. All of it.
Except… maybe not.
In 1971, I was drafted, then reenlisted in the U.S. Army. I was stationed in New Jersey for advanced training in crypto-electronics. I rented a small off-post room in an old Victorian house near the beach.
My landlord was an elderly man named Mr. Carlo Ponti. On weekend mornings, he’d putter in the garden.
One Saturday, he burst into song.
Not a murmur or a hum—fully operatic, powerful, astonishing.
“Mr. Ponti,” I said, stunned. “That was amazing. You could have been a professional!”
“I was a professional,” he said. “For years, I sang at the New York Metropolitan Opera.”
The name rang like a bell.
“Mr. Ponti… did you ever know a singer named Maria Anania?”
His face lit up.
“Of course! She was wonderful. We were close friends. I used to babysit her little boy—Pasquale.”
Years later, Pat Anania and I became close friends. I never doubted another story of his again.
And I still give him credit for the most practical lesson I ever learned in philosophy class:
Paint into the paint.
