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Twelve thousand three hundred and fifty seven days. When you say it like that it sounds like a pretty long time. In reality, it wasn’t long enough. Of course, that’s just my opinion, and if Mario were here, he might just debate me on that.

One thousand eight hundred and twenty one days. That’s how long I knew Mario. About seven hundred and fifty of those days I was in love with him. Most of those were good days.

There are so many of those days that run through my mind – moments of the days, actually – flashes of a past reality - memories. A conversation, a laugh, a crepe making competition or just standing in the doorway watching Mario and Mars curled up sleeping together.

Mario talked about his arm tattoos, calling them his ‘good side’ and his ‘eeevil side’. The more I think about it, the more appropriate that was. What I want to share with you is the ‘good side’ – the side that was all colorful and flowery. The side he joked he would add a ladybug into for me.





It’s been said before and it will be said again: Mario was a multifaceted guy. There were many sides to him, and I’m not sure that any one person ever saw them all. That being said, I have spent a lot of time debating what and how much to share here. I’ve struggled with what I want to contribute to whoever finds this site and what memories I chose to selfishly hold inside for only him and me to ever know. Realizing that we are google-able and recognizing that I am writing to even those I would chose to ignore, deny and forget, I will still write. But I will preface it by saying: If you prefer to remember Mario how he was to you and for you, don’t read what I post. I don’t give this warning in the same way Justin gave it when he wrote “Hardcore Since ‘74” for Mario. In fact, my warning may be just the opposite of his.

I know that to many, Mario was a wild child, a rebel. A porn-loving, speed craving adrenaline junkie with a shot of loud and crazy thrown in for flavor. Believe me, I saw that. I saw that side when we were out with his friends, in the stories he chose to tell and in the image he projected for people. But that guy wasn’t the guy I lived with at all. I mean, I guess there was a hint of that always present, but it wasn’t who he was to me when we came home at the end of the day.

He had an ability to control his dreams unlike anyone I’ve ever known. In the moments between wake and sleep, he would begin weaving a plot and as he fell into rest, that story would bloom into a dream, sometimes lasting all night. Much of the time, there was flying involved. Sometimes he was a super hero. (Super Mario??? Ah, truly!) I would know before we woke up if it was a flying super hero dream because he would have one arm wrapped around my waist and the other are out Superman-style with his whole body outstretched. One of my favorite things was him waking up – hair amiss and blind as a bat without his contacts – and recounting in vivid color the entire adventure he’d lived in his sleep.

Mario was the guy who would wake up early while I was getting ready for work and go downstairs and make me tea and toast. He’d sit on the toilet or the edge of the tub chatting with me while I rushed through my morning routine. He’d crawl back in bed as I was leaving, always with his buddy Mars by his side (or by his knee, or against his back, or next to his head….). He’d sleep as long as Mars would allow before insisting he wake up. Mario loved that cat and referred to him as his fuzzy alarm clock.



Sundays were the day I’d spend with Mario – the one day neither of us had to work. Lots of times there were races on Sundays and he would wake up at an obscene hour like 4 in the morning to watch the races live. I’d creep down the stairs to see he and Mars lying there together, both sets of eyes tracking Rossi. Mario would have a big bowl of cereal. Mars would have a little bit of milk and sometimes some clams. (This cat was forbidden to have people food, but Mario was always sneaking him things, and I’d pretend not to know about it….) Later, they’d creep back into bed with me and snooze away the morning. To this day, that cat will sit and watch the Speed Channel if I turn it on for him. Maybe he’s waiting for Mario to come home and join him, maybe he’s hoping for some clams.

While we were dating, Mario got back into hockey. He played in an adult league with a pretty wide variety of people on it. There were a few teams that seemed “stacked” with young kids – eighteen to twenty, recently out of high school, fast, sharp and some just plain rude. Mario’s team was a little more “diverse”, but it didn’t help their skill level or reputation any that several team members would show up to play quite drunk. It was summertime and for Mario, every game was a show. He was so excited every week anticipating which of his friends would come see him and I rarely missed a game. There was one team that was particularly stacked with young players. The first time Mario’s team had played against them (and lost pretty miserably), there was one kid who seemed to have it out for Mario. When that team came up on the game schedule again, Mario had a plan. In that league, there was a $20 fine for fighting. He wanted to pin a $20 bill to his jersey and let the guy know, “this is for you!” Well, he didn’t wear the $20, but he did end up having a nice scuffle with the guy and was sitting with his friends and me in the bleachers by mid-game after being ejected. He would always be quite proud of the minutes he spent in the penalty box. Seeing him play hockey was so much fun. Never have I been the type to stand up and yell things at a sporting event until I went to watch him play.

Probably some of my favorite memories with Mario involve food. He was a good cook, and he enjoyed cooking. I suppose that his love for food helped a lot in motivating him. The first time Mario cooked for me was one of our first dates. He told me he was cooking, and, honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. Of course he went all out, making vegetarian lasagna all from scratch, salad, bread and even dessert. Strawberries, blueberries and raspberries with whipped cream (that he whipped). Months later we were talking about it and he admitted thinking I was vegetarian and searching for just the right thing to make for me. That’s just how he was – thoughtful and always thinking about what would make me happy.

Mario explained motorcycle grocery shopping to me. Basically, guys on bikes can’t buy much. One of those little hand held baskets is plenty, and you’d better not fill it too full because everything you buy has to fit in your backpack when you’re through. Because of this, Mario was at the grocery store nearly every day. He was never the guy to leave his helmet outside, in fact, he’d usually flip the visor open, but leave the helmet on, wandering through the store, picking up his dinner fixings with only his eyes exposed. I guess that makes it rational, then, that little kids would think he was a Power Ranger. (Yes, I’m serious.) Sometimes they’d run up to him, sometimes they’d just point and stare with their mouths agape. Of course, Mario would humor them – hell, he probably signed autographs. His good deed for the day. Even picking up milk and shampoo was an adventure for him.

I’ve said before that Mario loved me “his way”. I think most people understand what I mean because Mario did everything he did “his way” and solely on his terms. Having Mario in my life made me see things differently, he forced me to relax and urged me to stop worrying - he taught me many simple pleasures.




More than just pictures, these memories are feelings, scents, emotions, tastes and smells. It’s one of the great things about human nature – the things that can take us back to another time. The list of things that make me think of Mario is long. I know that even in my old age, the sound of the right motorcycle engine, the taste of canolli, the smell of certain shampoos, the feeling of curly hair between my fingers will all take me back to a Sunday morning beside him.

Maybe I’ll share more someday, maybe I’ll hoard the rest of my memories forever, but I want you to know that Mario was a big softy, too. One of the most caring and thoughtful people I’ve known. I was proud to know him, proud to love him, and proud to share a piece of his life.

Rest well, babe. I hope they have Italian food, bikes and pretty girls in Heaven.