Two weeks before I actually moved to Manhattan, I had to meet with the housing administrator so I could pick out an apartment. As she showed me around, one of the residents, a tall, obscenely pretty brunette in cut-off shorts and tee shirt, came by to wash her dishes in the communal kitchen. I made a comment to the housing administrator how nice the kitchen looked. The brunette, intercepting the comment, griped about how the other residents never cleaned up after themselves, or at least very well, and she had to do it all herself.

I had to admit the woman was eye candy. But with a temper like that, I made a mental note to avoid her. As I saw her more and more, I got this, I don’t know, bad vibe whenever she walked into the room. It was as if a sudden chill had frosted the air. With her olive complexion, long raven locks, and permanent scowl, I sometimes toyed with the notion that she was part Romulan.

Of course, we couldn’t avoid each other. We were living in the same building, studying in the same department, sharing the same office space at the university, and had joint research projects assigned to us. But it wasn’t so bad. It took her some time to soften up, and it took me a little more time to trust her not to bite me in a foaming rage. Long story short, we became friends. In fact, she became one of the closest friends of my life.

She had a few years on me, and she used that time to achieve a few noteworthy things. In fact, at the Lincoln Center Library for the Performing Arts, while researching something else, I happened to come across a magazine article about her. Right there, in the first paragraph, was the story of Philip Glass’ run-in with a young music student, who, after looking at his hack license, informed him that there was a famous composer by that name.

Here’s the kicker: the article identified my friend as the woman who stepped into that cab.

If I ever had a doubt about the story's veracity, I didn’t anymore. After all, I could see my friend making the comment. I had learned earlier (from someone else) that she and Glass knew each other. I figured that must have been how they met.

Excited, I photocopied the article, took it to my building, made a b-line for my friend’s apartment, and shoved it in her face as soon as she opened the door. “I heard about this in my undergraduate twentieth century music class,” I blurted. “I had no idea that woman was you. Why didn’t you say anything?”

She let out a loud sigh. When I lowered the photocopy I saw her eyes narrowing into that familiar Romulan scowl. “Oh, that again,” she spat.

Okay, I can see where the story makes her look somewhat, um, daffy. And she’s so serious I can see where discussion of it would make her uncomfortable. But as it turns out, she objected to it for another reason.

“It’s not true,” she said. “It never happened.”

She then explained that she actually met Glass at a party. As a twentieth century music expert, she knew his work quite well, and held it in high esteem (in fact, I can just picture her gushing over him at this point). Glass, keeping things real, told her that it didn’t make him money. In fact he had to drive a cab to make ends meet.

She then quipped, “Good thing I didn’t step into your cab. I might’ve said something stupid, like, ‘You know, there’s a famous composer with your name.’”

And that’s how it started: as an off-hand joke told at a party.

At least according to my friend.

See, that’s the thing. I trust my friend. I trust my professors. And the magazine article said she was this woman. Both she and my professor are honest. Neither would knowingly lie to me. Of course, I believe my friend, because the story is about her. She would be in a better position to know.

This brings up all the issues involved with conflicting sources. Had I never met this woman, I would have probably gone to my grave thinking the story true. But just how does one make heads or tails of a story when all the sources disagree on the who, what, when, why and where?

Welcome, my friends, to the wonderful lands of misinformation and disinformation, a world very familiar to many conspiracy researchers.