Up Your Dolce Vita

DATELINE: Rome

Two old people, husband and wife, were found beaten silly in the streets of Rome.
No foul play is suspected as the wounds appear to be self-inflicted.

Witnesses interviewed at the scene observed the foreign couple leaving the Office
of the Questura, apparently having futilely attempted to renew their Permesso Di
Soggiorno (Permission to Stay) documents. They both were redfaced, sweaty and
cursing a blue streak, walking unsteadily and carrying wads of official documents,
with four copies of each, except those that required THREE copies, and the one that
required a special little colorful stamp purchased at the tobacco shop.

They seemed to be muttering to each other furiously. The muttering escalated to
shouting and one witness said he distinctly heard several expletives bantered back
and forth before the woman finally cried out, "I know you are, but what am I!"

Moments later, sticks were produced and the whacking began.

Emergency personnel were called to the scene and were attempting to disarm the
couple and tend to their bumps and bruises. Apparently, this was hampered by the
woman screaming over and over, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"

She finally passed out, whimpering "There's no place like home...there's no place
like home..." and repeatedly clicking together the heels of her crocs.

The Man seemed more coherent. When asked if he was suffering any pain he displayed
his ten fingers and said, "My fingerprints haven't changed in the past two years
since you digitally fingerprinted me, you mother------s!" No one could make sense
of what he was saying and it was unanimously agreed that he had a head injury.

Tonight they are recovering in the psych ward reserved for foreigners who have the
audacity to think they can just march in to the office they marched into two years
ago, and just get their supposedly digitized, computerized Permesso's renewed.
They thought they could just breeze in and out, like they were in a first world
country instead of a medieval third world insane asylum running on corruption and
nepotism. They thought that perhaps with the advent of the computer in the last
century, the bureaucrats of Italy might have deigned to put into place systems to
actually assist people instead of running them into an early grave trying to comply
with archaic and undecipherable rules and regulations.

How ridiculous these foreigners are! Where do they think they are? Somewhere
culturally sophisticated? HA! This isn't CIVILIZATION! This is ITALIA!!

These foreigners must be taught a lesson! If they want employees who care (a
concept known as "customer service," which has no equivalent in this Godforsaken
country; if they want streamlined systems to expedite bureaucracy; if they want to
save the trees, instead of making endless/needless copies of documents that serve
absolutely NO purpose and will end up in some big dark storage room somewhere in
the depths of Rome; if they want to spend their days freely doing whatever it is
they do here, instead of traipsing all over the place, shuffling from one official
office to another, traveling in crowded, airless, filthy buses and trams, given the
runaround by polyester-uniformed sadistic lackies who got their job because their
daddy's friend worked there; if they want to make something as simple as a
stinkin' telephone call to an office to CHANGE their appointment date because
they're not going to be in this country on June whatever!...

then they should go to...Switzerland!

A Two Hour Tour!

This may or may not be my last post about our vacation to Sapri.

I can't decide.

The problem is threefold. One, I obviously don't get enough vacations. Two, I took
a lot (as in hundreds) of photos and I keep thinking someone might enjoy them. (Kind
of like when you'd go visit Uncle Phil and Aunt Millie and they'd insist on pulling out
the old projector and screen and insist that everyone sit and watch an unending slide
show documenting every breathing moment of their Winnebago trip to Lubbock in
ought 87, or whatever, and everyone's head would start lolling around and your Dad
would yell about it all the way home at, like, two o'clock in the morning.)

And, three, I really miss Sapri and seem unable to let it go.

So, bear with me.

On Easter Sunday we were walking along the beach sidewalk in Sapri when we ran into some
guy trying to rustle up some business for his boat tour. At first, we just walked past him,
but then we got to thinking maybe a ride in a boat on this glorious day would be a good idea.

Now, whenever The Man and I both agree that something is a good idea...well, that's when
Godzilla should show up and just step on us.

But, evidently, Godzilla was busy officiating at the annual Sapri Easter egg hunt. So,
without any supervision at all, off we went. And, the rest is history...a history of joyous
thanksgiving to be alive on terra firma.

It was all good until...well...until we seemed to just keep going and going with no clear
indication that we would EVER turn around and get back to our point of embarkation.

The passengers were all unremarkable EXCEPT for the woman who started throwing
up almost immediately. Luckily, Captain Mario had a bucket on board. This poor
woman had been, prior to boarding the boat, laying in the sun drinking herself into a
state of oblivion. I wasn't aware of the "oblivion" part until things became apparent.

Anyway, she got sick quickly. We all sort of accepted her "sea-sickness" with good
humor and sympathy. However, after many hours of endless boating and watching
her condition deteriorate, Captain Mario prudently decided to change heading to the
nearest port for a medical evacuation. At this point, I was on the floor of the boat
holding the woman, trying to keep the blue tarp wrapped around her and to give her
some of my body warmth because she was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering.
When we arrived at the port of Scario (which we have no photos of because I thought it
would look slightly callous to start filming what seemed to be an extremely serious
situation - I actually thought she might be dying!) the ambulance was waiting...along
with a major portion of the population of this small village where nothing much happens,
I guess.

There was a flurry of excitement. The seemingly comatose, once happily inebriated
land-lubber was placed on a gurney and wheeled into the waiting ambulance, official-
looking men in uniforms were waving their hands around, Mario jumped back and
forth from the boat to shore to offer explanations and, all the while, the townspeople
stared down at us like we were all guilty of something and should be punished. No one
smiled at us...even the children looked pissed off!

And then, suddenly, we were back at sea on our way (we prayed) to Sapri...to shore...
to our hotels...or homes...our loved ones...our pets...children...dinner...pizza!

So, anyway, I put THIS MOVIE together and I hope you like it.

Oh, and if you're planning a trip to this region, do take Mario's boat tour. It is definitely
worth the price of admission. I would go again even knowing that I might not see land,
a toilet, a bottle of water, or a life vest...again!

(I'm serious! I was without a bathroom for over FIVE hours! An Easter miracle!!!)

Oh, and The Man thinks my references to Gilligan's Island are stupid because he never
likes it when something is compared to something on television or in the movies. But,
I think most people still remember the premise of that show and, to me, it is applicable.
In fact, during our interminable cruise, using the passengers on our boat, I was able to
cast the entire show: The Skipper (obviously, Mario), Gilligan, (another obvious choice),
The Professor, Mr. and Mrs. Howe, Mary Ann and, even, Ginger!

And, just so you know, the sick lady (aka Mary Ann) survived and is back home counting
her lucky stars.

Re: Patient No. STU123PID

Dear Doctor Slash Candy Man:

I need to double up the dosage on my cholesterol meds. Yesterday I cut myself and
I didn't bleed. Instead, pasta dough oozed out of my veins.

Also, as long as you're writing out some script, gimme a good diet pill, too, because
I've gained about 184 pounds, my thighs have grafted together and I'm starting to
walk like a penguin. My double chin has quadrupled which, I guess, is a bad thing,
but I am finding the folds of fat useful as places to stick my sunglasses, a pen, and
even lose change.

You're probably wondering how this dietary derailment could possibly have happened.

Well, it wasn't my fault, I can assure you!

The Man MADE me go with him to southern Italy and he MADE me go into these
restaurants and eat an amazing array of carbohydrate-ridden foods and milk-derived
products that were all incredibly fresh, like right out of the goat, or cow, or water
buffalo, or sheep (yes, they milk sheep here!) all washed down with jugs of local wine
from grapes kissed by the gods of various volcanoes biding their time until the next
eruption because, like me, those volcanoes are ready to blow!

He MADE me eat every bite and wipe my plate clean of
every drop of precious olive oil, suck the juice out of every
mussel shell, and lick the ice-cold limoncello liqueur from
my chubby fingers in the style of Mme Hortense in the
movie Zorba the Greek which is really sickening and unfair
because The Man got to be Marcello Mastroianni throughout.

Anyway, I'm so innocent!

To help you better understand what has occurred, I've constructed THIS VIDEO
documenting the horrors of what I had to endure during my ride on this culinary
train wreck.

Help me!

As ever, I remain, dear doctor, your humble and most obedient patient,
M

La Certosa di San Lorenzo

Admittedly, I am a lousy video filmer person.

I'm video-camera challenged. For example, in the video linked below, there's a brief
segment where you have to turn your head 90 degrees to the right in order to view
it because I was filming longways and forgot that that is a no-no because there's no
way to turn things around after the fact, and you should have been there to see my
face as I made that realization whilst I was filming! D'ough!

In addition, I think my camera is a little dud.

I also don't know how to add music, which would really be nice.

So, pardon my bad filming, but enjoy the content.

I'm taking you back to the year 1306 when a guy named Tommaso di San Severino,
decided to build a Carthusian Monastery in a town called Padula. Actually, he was
the Lord around these parts, so he could build the monastery wherever he wanted,
but he chose Padula and I'm glad he did because...well...I'm here...and because it's
in a gorgeous setting in the Vallo Di Diano, a great valley surrounded with huge
mountains and gorges and rivers and sheep and cows with bells on.

They dedicated the monastery to Saint Lawrence and named it "La Certosa di
San Lorenzo." (Just so you know, Saint Lawrence was one of the first bishops of
Rome and when he was martyred by grilling over hot coals, he yelled out "I'm
done on this side, turn me over and have a bite!" Which is why Saint Lawrence
is the patron saint of comedians to this very day.)

The Carthusians are an order of hermit monks. They pretty much just meditate all
the time, not leaving their cells except for study in the library, some manual labor
and maybe taking a walk or something to get the kinks out.

Other than that, they live in silent isolation.

The history of La Certosa di San Lorenzo is one of great prosperity and inevitable
decline. The political winds blew by...so did Napoleon Bonaparte. (The winds
merely ruffled some feathers, Napoleon stole the artwork). In 1807 and then again
in 1866 the place was abandoned. It was declared a National Monument in 1882.
It was also used as a prison camp during the two world wars. Finally, after some
restoration, it was reopened to the public in 1982. It is now a World Heritage Site.

I've decided that this is the most beautiful and astonishing place I've seen in all
my years in Italy. I'm serious. As we traipsed around the grand interior of the
monastery I had to constantly grab hold of my chin and push my mouth closed,
I couldn't stop gaping and oooing and ahhhing, like the village idiot allowed inside
to observe greatness. I was properly speechless, awestruck, amazed and delighted.

But, it was so incredibly beautiful, the aesthetics of the design, the architecture, the
art work, the intricate woodwork on doors and chorus stalls, the brightly colored
marble mosaics, the frescoed ceilings and walls, the majolica and terracotta floors,
the tranquility in the courtyards and cloisters...in the gardens...and it all went on
and on, corridor after corridor, room after room.

The kitchen was astounding. The marble balustrades were extraordinary. The
one-of-a-kind spiral marble staircase (like a giant conch shell) which leads to the
library was off limits, unfortunately, but I did take a photo looking up into it and
it's all in the video.

In fact, just watch THE VIDEO. I'm all out of adjectives.

Oh, and as you'll see in the film, the day's adventure ends with a meal. Naturally!
We were famished after all that wonderment and found a local trattoria where
three local men eating there assured us that 1) the local white wine was better
than the red, 2) we should order fish (they were all eating the octopus) because
"you eat fish on Good Friday," and 3) the food is better here than in Rome.

They were right on all counts.

(Oh, and the pasta pictured is handmade fusilli, the pasta from this region, with clams.
It was better than okay.)

Enjoy the film.

Travel Log Blog

We have made our way south to the Bay of Policastro, to the town of Sapri for an
Easter Getaway.

It's not our first time here. We always come here when we want some seashore
action. I think this is our fourth or fifth time. Our hotel is right on the beach, the
staff has changed, but they're always welcoming and very kind. They used to be
open before Easter and that's when we'd show up. But, now they don't open until
the Easter weekend. That means there are other guests here, but we don't mind.
We still got the best room in the house with a terrazza that overlooks the sea.

Google maps says it takes about 4 hours and 55 minutes to get here from Roma.
We took 8 hours. Well, we had to stop several times for a caffe and also to eat lunch
and also to stretch...hey, we're old people!

Anyway, I want to show you how wonderful this part of Italy is. I love it here.
This area south of Naples. Campania. Basilicata. The National Park of Cilento.

This VIDEO shows where we stopped for lunch, just off the main highway, at
what seemed to be a truck stop. Well, these truckers know how to eat, let me
tell you. As you will see from the photos, it's a far cry from the normal fare for
truckers in the U.S.

This little ristorante appeared and we both thought, hmmmm....there's cars
and trucks there...must be good...let's go there...

Well, first we ordered the vegetariano antipasto. I've never tasted such a
delectable selection of vegetables and cheeses...the mozzerella di buffala was
fabulous and the goat cheese!!! The sundried tomatoes in oil, the bit of omelette
and polenta, the peppers, the eggplant...Oh!

Then, I ordered the pappardelle with ceci (garbanzo beans). Heaven! Just look
at those little ceci beans sitting there all happy and everything!

The Man ordered a mixture of orrechiette (little ears) pasta and ravioli in an amazing
meat sauce of some kind.

We washed it down with a quarto (fourth) of vino della casa (wine of the house).

Mamma mia!

Then I walked outside and around the back and saw the source of some of our
meal. The pen of goats and chickens and ducks and turkeys and I don't know
what all. This place also had orchards for nuts and apples. Olive trees for the
best olive oil.

Then we got in the car and wound our way down into Sapri and the Med and
our hotel and our room and ... well, watch the video.

I'm going to post again tomorrow. We're going to explore the Cilento!

It's springtime and we're out of Roma!

Mortified!

I've got to write this while my
mortification is still fresh.

Okay. So, this morning I screwed
the top on the moka coffee maker
and, at the same time, completely
screwed up my back. I don't know
what happened physiologically,
but I do know that I'm unable to
stand upright. Luckily, my sitting
muscles are unaffected.

Okay. So, I'm just sitting, minding
my own business waiting for the
muscle relaxant to take effect,
planning our trip south to our favorite place on the seashore when I realize that
The Man is outside our door talking to some people. Who? I don't know.
He's just out there. Little Miss Busy-Body. Chattering away.

I'm thinking, "If he brings anyone in here I'll stab him with a pencil and at the trial
when I tell the jury what happened they'll let me off because everybody knows that
you don't bring uninvited strangers into the apartment of a woman with back spasms,
hot flashes and dirty hair.

Suddenly, without any warning AT ALL, he opens the door and says cheerily to me,
"Guess who's here? It's the Proprietaria (the owner) of our building and her son!"
Then, (and, I'm not kidding here!) HE INVITES THEM INTO OUR APARTMENT
WHICH IS A COMPLETE MESS AND LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING RECENTLY
RAIDED BY A BLACK BEAR WITH A BINGE EATING DISORDER BECAUSE MY
BACK IS IN A SPASM AND I HAVEN'T CLEANED UP ANYTHING OR WASHED
THE BREAKFAST DISHES, OR PUT AWAY MY OLD RATTY SWEATER THAT
IS HANGING ON THE BACK OF THE CHAIR, OR VACUUMED THE CARPET
WHICH HAS A WEEK'S WORTH OF CRUD ON IT, OR THROWN AWAY THE
HALF-EATEN APPLE AND EMPTY WINE BOTTLE ON THE COUNTER, OR PUT
AWAY THE SUITCASE THAT'S SITTING OUT ON THE SOFA, UNZIPPED
WITH A WHITE PLASTIC BAG HANGING OUT OF IT, AND TWO ODD-SHAPED
CARTONS OF STUFF I'M SHIPPING BACK TO THE STATES AND A BIG BALL
OF BUBBLE-WRAP PACKING MATERIAL LYING ON THE FLOOR AGAINST
THE WALL, AND WHY OH WHY ARE THE MAN'S CROCS STICKING OUT OF A
CERAMIC PLANTER?...oh, I'm hyperventilating!

It was absolutely mortifying and I had no place to hide. I just sat there, frozen, my
brain screaming "THIS IS BAD! THIS IS REALLY BAD!! DO SOMETHING!!!"

But, what could I do? I couldn't get up. Otherwise I would have fled the building,
so great was my shame.

Now I know how my mother felt when she'd have her bridge ladies over and they'd
mistakenly enter my bedroom while searching for the bathroom and discover my
den of filth and chaos. My mother used to have fits about my room. I forget all the
things she threatened to do if I didn't get in there and clean it up.

Well, Mom, you'll probably be somewhat pleased to learn that I finally got my just
desserts. Call it karma, universal justice or the hand of God, but today within the
blink of an eye, I was tried, convicted and sentenced for all my past, sloppy domestic
transgressions.

But, BUT the thing is I'm NOT a total slob...under normal conditions! I'm really
pretty good at keeping things neat and mostly clean and orderly.

But, today...today! Oh, the agony! The disgrace!

Can you feel my pain?

I almost cried. That's how bad it was. I actually had to fight the formation of tears in
my eyes! And, all the while, The Man is standing there TOTALLY CLUELESS, laughing
and talking away, having a good ol' time with these people...the owner of our building!...
"The Senora!" Who I'd NEVER met before because The Man always pays the rent by
wire or goes to her house. All the tenants go to her to pay the rent. This is the first time
in ten years that she has deigned to set foot in this crumbly old building, and it had to
be today and my back had to go out and I had to be sitting there in my most ragamuffin
clothes and I wasn't even wearing a bra...another punch to my solar-humiliated-plexus.

What's really weird is that after they all left (finally, thank God!) I got up out of my sick
chair and started cleaning. I put everything away, did the dishes, ate the half apple, all
in about five minutes. It's like I thought they were coming back or something.

And, in my distress, I forgot to remember that my back hurt. I actually started feeling
physically better.

Mentally, though, I remain a basket case.

Musical Treat

A phenomenal performance by Buddy Greene in Carnegie Hall.

Enjoy!


(I stole this link from janebretl.com)

For Italian Wannabees

We aren't particular enough in the United States.

If, say, you're sitting in an eatery enjoying your deep fried peeps and you see some
green-skinned, antenna-headed martian walk in and ask for deep fried peeps with
ketchup, you just shrug and think, "must be from California....hmmm...ketchup...
I think I'll try me someadat!"

Americans are open to new ideas and willing to try new things...I'm thinking jello
shots and bungee jumping here.

But, in ITville, IT's an entirely different story.

Italians like things just the way they are, the way things have been for the last
seven hundred generations (with the exception of the automobile and the cell-
phone...oh, and naked dancing girls on television), so don't even think about
offering suggestions on improving trash collection or describing the beauty of
the catalytic converter unless you have an insane desire for ridicule. This is
NOT the land of entrepreneurial thinking.

Italians are often snooty and sometimes kind of sneaky. They like to know exactly
who (or what!) they're sitting next to. So, they have devised subtle booby-traps over
the centuries, specific social mores, cultural codes that are designed to expose any
impersonators, any charlatans, any ketchup-loving Californians among them.

Obviously, purple Crocs with the little trendy charms attached are a dead giveaway.

No, I'm talking about much more insidious methods to find you out, you faker!

The following list represents a decade's worth of research. Try not to get confused. I do.

How to infiltrate a group of Italians and not look like a complete dolt.

1. Wear black. Italians always dress like extras in a funeral commercial. If you
show up in the piazza wearing white polyester pants and a pink qiana shirt expect
to be surrounded. They'll think you're a circus acrobat and they'll demand you
perform tricks. Do your best and don't fret. (To their credit, Italians will tolerate
the absolute worst and most meaningless street entertainment, like this and this
and this.

2. Don't order a cappuccino after 11:00 a.m. If you do, they'll regard you with
quizzical disdain, like you just ran outside and rolled in a pile of fresh cow manure.
It's considered udderly (sic!) disgusting to consume a milk product after a meal.
Just order an espresso and suffer. (For those of you who have been here and
enjoyed cappuccinos after a meal...well...you may as well know now...they were
watching and they were laughing at you behind your back.)

3. Remember that the salad comes at the END of the meal, not at the beginning
or during. Don't look for some big plastic bottle of Kraft's Creamy Poppyseed
Salad Dressing, either. Use the olive oil and maybe a bit of salt and pepper.

4. NEVER request parmigiano (that's parmesan's REAL name) or any other
cheese to sprinkle on any pasta dish that contains seafood. If you do, your
waiter will develop an uncontrollable eye twitch and fellow diners will snort
their mineral water. Cretin!

5. Avoid attempting to form a line. Line forming indicates that you are an anal
retentive Anglo Saxon. Just stand in that tangled mass of human chaos and
whimper, then charge the turnstile...or ticket window...or bus door when it
opens. This rule applies to driving, too. Those white lines on the road are merely
suggestions. No one takes them seriously, nor should you.

6. Never ever be intimidated by anyone, especially those in exalted positions of
power, like a policeman, a doctor or a lawyer or the Prime Minister...ESPECIALLY
the Prime Minister! And, never, EVER say you're sorry! Instead, say, "It wasn't
my fault!"

7. When you meet up with a friend you must shake hands and do the double kiss.
Woman, man, it doesn't matter. Everybody does the kiss - kiss on the cheeks. But,
make sure you go left, right; that is, you lean in with your left cheek first, then you
offer your right cheek. Practice this until you get it right because if you offer your
right cheek first all hell will break loose! (I know this from personal experience,
but "It wasn't my fault!")

8. Don't say "Buon Giorno" (good day) after 2:00 p.m., say "Buona Sera" (good
evening) and keep saying "Buona Sera" until just before you go to bed, at which
time you finally say "Buona Notte" (good night). This means that after an evening
out with friends, you depart by saying "Buona Sera." But, if those same friends
are sitting in your living room unwilling to leave your house, then you can walk in
wearing your pajamas and tell them, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.
BUONA NOTTE!"

9. On pain of death, never, EVER smugly suggest that "calcio" (soccer) is a game
for wimps and whiners. They will eat you alive...literally, but in a wonderful
tomato sauce infused with olive oil, garlic and peperoncino. (What do you think
tripe is?) In fact, if there's one thing that has lowered the Italian opinion of America,
it's American football. A bunch of enormous, strangely dressed (think about it),
mono-syllabic troglodytes crushing each others' guts out is the essence of crude
and unrefined behavior. Unless, of course, you're an enormous, strangely dressed,
mono-syllabic troglodyte who happens to be dating an Italian model or showgirl.
Then, you're okay, paesano.

10. Hold the mayo! Try to keep in check your insatiable desire for mayonnaise.
If you like it so much, go to France. Just today I mentioned to a Roman friend that
we were having panini with prosciutto for lunch. She was curious about how we
made our sandwiches. I replied that we ate them simply, with just a little mayonnaise.
You'd have thought I'd suggested we all jump naked into the nearby fountain. She
stopped in her tracks, put her hand on her heart and sputtered, "Mah, no!" I looked
warily about me thinking she must have misunderstood me. "It's a panino," I assured
her. But, she just stood there staring at me like maybe I was a New England Patriot or
something. She kept repeating, "No, no, no. You NEVER put mayonnaise on prosciutto.
Never!!!

Which illustrates exactly what I was trying to explain at the beginning of this post.

We just aren't particular enough. We're too easy. And, it's hard being easy.

So, pass the ketchup.

Number Two

I haven't posted any blogs for awhile. I've written several, but they were so full
of venomous angst I decided not to put them out there. The world has enough
bad stuff in it, why add more. Plus, I was depressed.

I get that way. I just slide down into a dark hole where everything looks bleak
and useless and sad. While in this place I try to talk myself out of it. I get mad at
it. I make myself go out and try to "walk it off." But, it doesn't go away. It sticks
like bubblegum to shoebottom*.

I've read a lot about what supposedly causes chronic depression, things like
genetics, not enough serotonin, not enough exercise, too much stress, too
much alcohol, coffee, and chocolate.

But, the other day The Man
(who is annoyingly happy and
content, like Steamboat Willy
driving his little boat down the
river, whistling a happy tune)
turned on a radio program and
they were talking about Numerology.

Oh boy! I'm saved! Like astrology,
Numerology describes various
characteristics that a person is born
with, depending on the birth date
and name given. It's "fate-based." You get your number the minute you come out of the chute
and that's it. You can't change it. You're stuck. Doomed forever. Ad infinitum.

Anyway, I started figuring out my numbers and reading up on my characteristics.
The findings were startling.

I'm a Number Two. Well, actually, I'm an Eleven, which is a master number, which
means that I'm really a Two, but in a heightened sense. I'm full of Number Two.

Now, Number Two's have good traits like: kind, humble, sensitive, helpful, etc. All
pretty mundane qualities. But, my bad traits are the real winners: timidity, fear, low
self esteem, lack of self confidence, and DEPRESSION.

So, at last, I know why I suffer from this debilitating syndrome. It's because I'm
nothing but a little piece of Number Two!

Whew! What a relief! Pass the chocolate!

Now, The Man is a Three.

In fact, three of his core numbers are three's: his "life path," his "soul urge," and his
"personality." He is 3 to the third power. A threefer.

The characteristics of a three are: creative, socially active, artistic, very positive
and optimistic, playful, happy and fun-loving, inspirational, imaginative, motivating,
enthusiastic and uplifting, great verbal skills, a talent for self expression, a great
communicator, you enjoy life and you don't take things too seriously.

Career choices include: Entertainer, writer, actor, musician, poet.

In short, he's an adorable angel with little wings and a halo making the world smile,
content with life having achieved his heart's desire.

I mean, gag me.

I, on the other hand, am like
a doomed salmon swimming
upstream, struggling every
inch of the way en route to
the promised land, only to
end up flying smack dab into
the mouth of a stinky grizzly
bear filmed live for some
National Geographic
documentary.

I mean, bite me.

It's like the fortune cookies. The Man opens a cookie and it invariably says something
like, "You are so awesome!" and "The God of Fortune is smiling down down upon your
head" and "If you were the weather, every day would be 72 degrees and sunny."

I open my cookie to find "Cheer up, you grouch!" and "You eat too much and your
nose is too big!" "Be nice to your husband for a change."

I'm not kidding. He always gets the good fortune. I get insults. Every time.

The world is made up of a myriad of elements, but FAIRNESS is certainly not
one of them.

Therefore, this old salmon is doomed to eternally swim up Number Two creek
without a paddle.







*Another good cat name to add to my list: "Shoebottom"
It's got a Shakespearean ring to it. Someday, when they find me dead in my
trailer with 65 cats, they're gonna say, "Wow! She sure could name a cat!"

Montecalvello Day Trip

After two months of bliss we decided to give up the absolute best parking space
in the center of Rome.

This was a big deal. To have a parking place that is positioned in such a way as
to preclude sideswiping, mirror breaking, scratching, denting,graffiti spraying
and outright stealing is something to regard with awe and reverence, especially
because it's highly unlikely we'll EVER get that parking space AGAIN! So, as we
drove away from this hallowed piece of ground The Man turned around in his
seat and waved goodbye saying, "Farewell good little parking spot. We'll
remember you well."

It was kind of a weepy moment.

Then, off we bumbled in our little car, into the northern countryside of the
Umbrian hills where we ended up in this small village called Montecalvello,
which boasts a population of 84 citizens. But, what they lack in citizenry, they
make up for in Castlery.

The Castello di Montecalvello dates
from 774-776, a time when guys like
Charlemagne were running around
conquering the known world and
women stayed inside near the fire
because everything was freezing,
not to mention filthy...oh, and for a
good time they all went to church to
gaze at the psychedelic stained glass
windows, the equivalent of today's 3D,
unless, of course, you were a peasant
which is an entirely different depressing
story.

The Castello was enhanced over the
following centuries, and changed hands
frequently, depending on which way the political winds blew.

Balthasar Klossowski (aka Balthus), an artist of some renown, bought the place
in the 1970's and restored much of the castle. Today it is owned by his son who
graciously allows visitors to roam about the grounds. (Actually, I'm only assuming
he's gracious about it. I mean, I really don't know. Maybe he hates people walking
around on his property and stands inside, under the ancient, frescoed ceilings
screaming epithets at the bumpkins below. However, I can say that on the day we
were there, I heard no screaming.)

In this photo of the entrance
you'll notice the circular red
sign with the white horizontal
slash. This sign totally spoils
the view, and is, unfortunately,
typical Italian signage. In this
case, the sign is posted to keep
people from driving their cars
onto the castle grounds.I mean,
you'd have to be a complete
nullard to think that driving your
car through that ancient gateway
would be an okay thing to do. But, evidently, there is a nullard surplus in the area (Oh, I'm
so shocked!) that the castle owner had to put up a sign. Too bad.

In the middle ages when this castle was in the hands of the Monaldeschi clan (who
were NOT known for their diplomatic skills) they would have captured the errant
driver, impaled him on a spike and stuck him on the ramparts, leaving him there
to rot in the breeze as a warning to all future dumbbells.

Impaling. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

I guess it's where the expression "I get your point!" came from.

Anyway, here's a short slide show of Il Castello Di Montecalvello

Bambi Bytes

I've been thinking lately about when Bambi's mother died.

I don't think I'm over it.

I mean, I remember where I was when I read about it and everything. I was
in the library of Harbor City Junior College with my older sister and some of
her friends. I was nine years old and sitting there at a wide, wooden desk
doing really well, quietly reading, acting like a big person instead of a dorky kid.

But, then it happened. They were out there in the meadow eating the new spring
grass when suddenly Bambi's mother says, "Run!" Bambi runs like mad and then
starts looking everywhere for his mother but can't find her. That's when The Old
Prince of The Forest shows up and says "Your Mother can't be with you anymore."

"Come...my son." said the stag.

WAAAH!

I let out a wail. My inner dam burst and everything within a three mile radius was
destroyed. Water was going everywhere. My sister and her friends were all washed
away down the hallway out the door, grappling with bobbing books, pencils and erasers.
The head librarian was shouting "Silence!" as she careened by, engulfed in the raging
torrent of my tears.

It was emotion at its most unstoppable.

Then, my sister was back, kicking me under the table, telling me to knock it off! She
and her friends were staring at me like I was some kind of fungus or something.

I buried my puffy, slobbery face in the book and continued sobbing. They may have
gotten their driver's licenses but they had obviously never read BAMBI!!

Okay. Fast forward 44 years and here I am still upset about Bambi's mother.

Her death was so sudden and unfair and rotten and sad.

Bambi stands alone at the top of the pinnacle of writing that affected me most
emotionally. And, I'm thinking it really screwed me up as a person because it
made me an anthropomorphic nutcase, the kind of weirdo who looks at
icanhascheezburger.com and thinks it's high humor.

I think Bambi should come with a warning message to all parents that their
children could potentially become mentally warped for life, and even in late
adulthood will still cry hysterically every time they see a dead squirrel on the
road, they will hate hunters and zoos, and in extreme cases they might even
join Greenpeace and start ramming Japanese whaling boats.

So, that's my tirade for today. Now I'm going to go contemplate the great
Thumperian philosophy of "If you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all."

Dueling Parking

So the other day I'm loitering on some street of Rome. The Man is inside a
pizza-by-the-slice joint and it's packed with locals grabbing a bite for lunch.

I'm outside because I'm just getting over the worst flu on the planet and I've
decided that I will never eat another bite of food as long as I live.

So, I'm just standin' out there drinking a bottle of water trying not to smell
the pizza when I see this taxi pull up and start to do a "double parking-parallel
park" which is a common phenomenon that occurs because the regular parking
spaces were filled with cars...oh, in like the Pleistocene era, or something, so new
arrivals have to double park alongside the existing cars. It's sorta like layering.

Anyway, this taxi pulls up and starts to parallel park his car because he's hungry
and wants some pizza. This is important...and will probably be introduced as
evidence at the trial...but, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Fact You Can Take To Your Grave: Romans CANNOT parallel park and that's
probably why they lost the empire!

I've stood and watched in amazement as Romans attempted to accomplish the
act of parallel parking many times. It is so embarrassing. It's like when you
happen to see your cat fall off the sofa and the cat looks at you with that hey-
I-meant-to-do-that look on it's face. Well, that's the way Romans are about
parallel parking. Only better.

For example, I recently watched this Roman woman pull up to a large, vacant
parking space. She pulled alongside it, pulled a bit forward and started to back in.
Everything looked so normal and was going so well. Her angle of approach was
actually pretty good, but then, I guess, she lost interest or fell into a coma or
something because she forgot to turn the wheel and ease into the spot. Instead,
she just plowed into the curb at a diagonal angle. Then, she pulled forward.
Then, she backed up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed
up and hit the curb. Then, she pulled forward. Then, she backed up and hit the curb.
You get the picture? It just kept going on and on and on till you wanted to slap her.

I happen to be an award winning parallel parker. I can park a 6 foot car in a 5 foot
11 inch parking space IN ONE TRY! Not that I'm bragging or anything, but I'm
really good at it. It's an idiot savant thing.

Anyway, I'm watching this parking atrocity and I'm absolutely disgusted with this
woman. She seemed to think that if she just went back and forth enough times, the
Earth would go into some kind of a reverse continental shift and, like South America
settling back into the embrace of the western coast of Africa, her car would somehow
find it's way to the curb!

The Man heard me mutter, "My God Woman! Just park the damn thing!" He
restrained me from going over there, grabbing her by the throat, yanking her
out of the car and doing it myself!

Anyway, they can't park. Now, back to the present in front of the pizza joint:

I'm watching this guy and he's backing up. He's doing well, but then I observe
the other double-parallel parked car behind him. Then, I'm standing there...
on the sidewalk...alone...saying out loud...in English..."He's going to hit him! He's going
to hit him! He's going to hit him! He's going to..." BLAM!

He hit him, all right. You could hear the "crack" of the plastic front bumper on the
big, black BMW.

Now what's really odd, is that nothing happened immediately. It was very quiet
and no one moved. Time stood still.

Then, I saw that inside the black BMW, sitting right there behind the wheel, was
the BMW owner. He was just sitting there. He had his head back against the head
rest and he was just waiting...calmly.

The taxi driver finished his semblance of parking and exited his car. He walked back
to the BMW driver, who still hadn't moved, and started talking to him. The taxi driver
was lighthearted and seemed to be joking around and ended by saying "sta bene...spero."
It's fine...I hope. I liked that "I hope" part.

All the while, and I'm not kidding, the BMW driver does not say a word and does not
lift his head from the headrest. He's so cool. He just looks at the guy with a dead pan
face and makes a gesture that I cannot describe but which was so completely Italian
and which was like saying, "wha'." I mean, Robert Di Niro had nothing on this guy!

The end of the story is that the taxi driver goes into the pizza joint and gets his lunch,
but the guy in the BMW just sits there. HE NEVER GOT OUT OF HIS CAR TO LOOK
FOR THE MIGHTY CRACK THAT I'M SURE WAS THERE BECAUSE I HEARD IT
AND SO DID EVERYBODY ELSE WITHIN A THREE MILE RADIUS!

It was great. That guy in the BMW just sat there like he was the King of the Planet,
like he had a fleet of BMW's back at the castle, like he didn't have the time or energy
to deal with a taxi driving piece of riff raff who had just cracked his bumper.

I tried to imagine what would've happened if this had occurred in the U.S. There would
have been people and identification flying in every direction, driver's licenses, proofs of
insurance, police reports, birth certificates of the first born, whatever, threats, curses, etc.

It's a different world here, though.

But, here's a tip. If some Roman ever walks up to you, slaps you in the face with a
glove and challenges you to a duel, when he asks you your choice of weapon, just say,
"Parallel parking, my good Sir, parallel parking." Then watch his eyes go dead and the
beads of sweat start to form on his brow.

Ah Ha! You'll have won the duel before you started.

Birthday Boy

All you need is trust and a little bit of pixie dust!

Peter Pan (aka The Man) is celebrating his
65th birthday today.

Accordingly, after interminable weeks of rain
and gray skies, we in Never Never Land have
been blessed with the stunning arrival of spring
in all its glory, with brilliant blue warm skies,
singing birds and blooming flowers.

Turning 65 caused some slight discomfort for the
Boy in Green, but he shook it off in his inimitable style. After all, there are still more
dragons to slay, more pirates to capture, more poems to write, pictures to paint,
music to create. He's too busy to be mopey.

Plus, he gets Happy Birthday discounts from the government from now on every
time he enters a State museum because now he enters for FREE, which he did just
this morning right after breakfast when we went to test the system. He also purchased
a shiny new monthly bus pass for half price!

Peter Pan is flying high!

I'll teach you to ride on the wind's back, and away we go!

But, this is a meaningful birthday. It's like 18 or 21, but then they make you wait a
really long time for the next one, 65. And, it's difficult to experience one of the big
birthdays after having had so little practice after so many years.

But, he did fine. There was just a flutter of discomfort.

The Man has aced the aging process the way I slay pattern recognition skills on an
I.Q. test. He's really good at it. He has a way of growing along in years gracefully.
He is forever gentle and kind with everyone he meets. He spreads cheer whenever
he can. He remains inquisitive and interested. And, no physical ailment impairs his
willingness to experience another adventure.

It has been my life-altering, good fortune to have been along for the last thirty
years of the ride.

He is an example to follow. Too bad we can't dissect him and figure out exactly
how he ticks, because he's not like anyone else I've ever met.

Happy Birthday, Peter.
From the dumb-dumb Wendy-type girl you taught to fly.

So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned.
Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever,
in Never Never Land!

The Patroness of Impossible Cases and Lost Causes

I come from a strictly Protestant upbringing. I have been baptized with a
sprinkling of water by the Presbyterians and fully immersed in a big tub
wearing a white flowing robe (yikes!) by the Baptists. I guess you could say
I been baptized up one side and down the other.

But, the Catholic influence has always lingered on the fringes of my life,
as in the following examples:

Oddly, we always ate fish on Fridays and no one knew why. My mother
would just go in there and prepare either oven baked fish sticks or tuna
casserole or clam chowder on those nights and we'd dig in all happy and
excited (especially on fish stick night!) not concerned at all about why we
were honoring a Catholic tradition.

I used to envy the Catholic girls who got to wear a blue plaid jumper, white
short-sleeved shirt and blue knee socks and loafers to school.

My brother got in trouble once for being caught wearing a St. Christopher
medal. All the surfers were wearing them at the time, but my mother said
he couldn't because "You're not a Catholic" and it got yanked.

I tried going to catechism. I was in the 5th grade and Mrs. Schuler made the
announcement that if anyone wanted to, they could get on a bus an hour before
school got out on Wednesdays and go over to St. Margaret Mary's Church to
take catechism classes.

This was in the olden days when schools had the money to hire a bus to take a
bunch of kids exactly THREE blocks down the street to some Catholic church but,
strangely as I think about it now, they didn't have the money to actually pick us
up near our homes in the morning and take us to school, which meant that we had
to walk about a hundred miles EACH WAY, EVERY DAY, which was one of the
reasons I decided to go to this Cata-clism thing. I wanted to ride in a school bus!
I was some kind of desperate kid, I guess.

Anyway, I started going and we all just sat on these wooden benches in a darkened
chapel listening to these nuns dressed in long black robes with starched white veils
covering their heads, telling us that if we learned our verses we'd get a multicolored
beanie, which I really wanted! It was a hat just like the one Beany wore in the Beany
and Cecil cartoon show only without the propeller on top.

It's amazing to me now that I was doing this without any
kind of parental permission slip. I finally got around to
telling my mom about it one day and her eyes got all buggy
and everything and she told me I couldn't go because "You're
not a Catholic!" So, I never got my beanie, which bothers me
to this very day.

Then, ultimately, I married a Catholic...well, a lapsed Catholic...as in not-since-
the-8th-grade Catholic. In fact, the only way you can tell that The Man was
once an altar boy and went to Catholic school is that he can diagram a sentence,
which fills me with awe.

Now, here I am living in the mecca of Catholicism, a city with over 900 Catholic
churches and seventy zillion nuns and priests running around.

Coincidence? I don't think so.

Somewhere there's a little Catholic child in me, and she wants her beanie.

And, in my wanderings through various churches, I've found just the Saint to help me.
Saint Rita. The Patroness of Impossible Cases and Lost Causes.

Saint Rita was pretty special. She grew up wanting to be a nun but her parents
said no you have to marry this disgusting guy we have all picked out for you.
Being an obedient daughter, she went through with the marriage and even had
two children with her abusive and all around rotten husband. She spent her
days praying for her man, but it didn't do any good and finally somebody just
stabbed him to death.

But, then she had to worry about her two sons who were into the "vendetta"
thing which is so totally Italian. She didn't want them to go and murder their
father's murderer and thereby relinquish eternal life in the good heaven. So,
Rita prayed that God would take her sons (as in to heaven, as in dying), thus
nipping their vendetta plans in the bud. Evidently, God heard her prayers and
both sons died within a year. Supposedly, they died of natural causes...yeah, right.
I think it was more like, "here you go, eat your mushrooms, boys!," but it was all
okay because they repented their sins before they departed.

Okay, now Rita is totally free as a bird. So, she goes and joins up with the nuns
like she wanted to do all along. The nuns take her in and you'd think she would
be happy with that and just settle down and learn to knit or something. But, no.
She wants to suffer more. So, she prays real hard and tells Jesus that she wants
to suffer like He did. Well, Jesus goes, "okay." And, the next thing you know, Rita
has a thorn stuck in her forehead. And, it's not just any thorn, it's a thorn from
the Crown of Thorns Jesus had to wear when he was crucified, and what was it
doing there sticking Saint Rita in the head I don't know!

So now Rita has this wound right in the middle of her forehead like a bad zit THAT
WON'T HEAL, no matter how much goop they put on it, AND it smells real bad.
But, Rita is in a state of bliss about it. She's just tickled pink and couldn't be happier.

Years later, after her death, they put her body in a glass coffin on display in a basilica
conveniently named after her. Her body has remained uncorrupted AND it changes
position every now and then, levitating on her feast day. Also, her eyes and mouth
seem to have a life of their own, opening and closing unaided.

And, that's not all. She's the patron saint of baseball.

Is this a far out world we live in, or what?

It Never Snows In Rome

Ants!

(WARNING: If you're a Myrmecophobiac, you don't want to
read this post or view the video link...especially the video link!)


Has everyone but me seen this film?

If so, WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME ABOUT IT!

The Man and I got rid of our television in 2001.
Ten years off the tube. We're like total mutants by now.

But, this Ants! movie makes me think that perhaps not all t.v.
is mindless, trance inducing, stupidhead-making horse manure.
I'm thinking maybe we should consider re-subscribing to the
national brain drain...or at least The Science Channel because
they did such a great job documenting the awesomeness of ants.

The music is creepy, the narration hypnotic, the cinematography
suspenseful, but in a nice way.

It makes both the scientists and the natural world seem bizarre
and scary and totally groovy...which, they actually are, I guess.

I especially like the little typed notations letting you know that the
ants are really okay and the crazy scientists didn't massacre a gazillion
of them to complete their experiment. Boy, I was relieved by that...
'Course I generally trust film makers, which is probably stupid.

This is only a segment of a multi-part series entitled: "Ants! Nature's
Secret Power," which you can access on YouTube and elsewhere online.

I'll tell you one thing, though. I'm gonna think twice the next time
I flick some pesky ant off my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Haiti

The destructive earthquake and resulting devastation in Haiti has left me feeling
such a heaviness of heart. To continue writing my frivolous blog without mentioning
it is wrong. Such a catastrophe deserves our attention, a pause, a deviation from the
normal preoccupation with trivial concerns. I want to take a moment to honor those
who have died and also the survivors who are enduring extreme hardship and sorrow.

Since the day Christopher Columbus landed, the people of Haiti have suffered. To read
the subsequent history is to read of mankind's greatest atrocities. The Haitians' despair
has continued almost unabated.

And, now this.

I really don't know if such conditions as "unfairness" and "undeserved" exist on a
cosmic level. But, this event exceeds both epithets.

With tears I watched the first video footage of the destruction, and with tears I
watched the world respond. Americans donating millions of dollars in cell phone
donations, concerned individuals struck by the need to do something to help...one
of the greatest things about Americans is their selfless and immediate willingness
to help those in need. I was appalled by those (thankfully few) particularly evil,
heartless pundits who advised Americans to do nothing, that somehow Haiti deserved
being obliterated. But, the people ignored the ravings of these dead-eyed haters,
effectively making them invisible and exposing their impotence.

Here, the Italians are also donating by cell phone, the British, too. Good for them.

My thoughts and prayers are with the people of Haiti and all the rescuers that have
arrived on the scene. They have a grim and seemingly insurmountable task ahead.
It must be impossible for them to feel optimism at this point.

I hope that the strong Haitian spirit will sustain the survivors through this disaster
and that their labors will result in a renaissance, a rebuilding not just of their cities
and towns, but of their rich and complex culture.

The Valkyries

I am writing to dispel the rumor that I live an idyllic life.

The fact is I don't know what I'm doing here in Rome.

However, I am absolutely certain that whatever it is I am doing, I am
missing the point of it all completely, and that on some future day I'm
going to be walking around Punkinville, Ohio and the reason for my
being in Rome is going to suddenly hit me, which will cause my head to wobble and tilt
and then fall off my body and roll down the street, and a giant red flag with "D'oh!"
written on it is going to then slowly rise up out of my neck and blow softly in the breeze.

But by then it will be too late. It will all be over. Finished. Finito!

This, THIS! is what's bothering me.

And, more importantly, I am making The Man's life a living hell with all my crabbing
and complaining about the cramped dark hovel we live in and the cold weather and
the stinky buses and the dog poop all over the cobblestones. And, no matter how true
all of the above may be, he is a nice person (part angel actually), and shouldn't have to
listen to the wailings and lamentations of a Nordic Valkyrie first thing in the morning.

Poor guy. Really. I mean it. Sometimes when I'm in the throes of complaining I just
have to stop because he looks so pitiful and I feel sorry for him that he has such a
witch for a wife and that someday he's going to realize that the pasta I make doesn't
make up for the fact that I am quite frequently Brunhilde on speed.

But, before you all go, "Oh, big waaah! She's in Rome and doesn't wike it! Oh, WAAAH!"
let me tell you that Rome is just another city on the planet. It's not that special, no
matter what all the past and present Emperors around here tell you!

The Eternal City consists of 6 million people, all of whom are pushing and shoving and
trying to parallel park their little cars into non-existent parking spaces, and all being
subjected to hideous economic pressures by their hideous-er government officials. It's
not paradise here...well...unless you're on a three day excursion in early spring or late fall,
at which time it is fairly paradisaical, I concede.

But, the point I'm trying to make is that I have a problem with Rome. It's like I was
killed by a Roman soldier in a previous life or something. Maybe I was crucified on
the Appian Way, or torn to shreds by wild beasts in the Colosseum while the crowd
roared and the Emperor gave me a big giant thumbs down! (Is that the Big Giant
I am waiting for? A thumb?!)

What else could possibly be the cause of all my discomfort and unrest?

Maybe this Sigmund Freud finger puppet can help.

Me: "Hi Doctor. Umm...well...last night I dreamed I gave birth to
myself and then at the end I said, 'Well, I guess I'd better name
me now.' So, do you think I have a problem?"

Freud: "Very interestink. You haven't been drinkink cheap
foreign wine have you?"

Me: "Red or white?"

Freud: "Eider one."


Me: "Not since last Thursday when I could've sworn
I saw Cerberus, the mythical three-headed dog who
guards the gates of hell outside our apartment window."

Freud: "Very goot! Stay off zee zauce."

Me: "Okay. Anything else? I mean it, Doc. I'm really
having a bad time! I'm not a happy camper!"

Freud: "Campink? Campink?! You tink dat life is ein
holiday?! You tink dat livink is ein vacation for kinder?
Ein PIK-NIK?!! You dummkopf! You make me zick!
You need to vork harder! You need to keep marchink!
Eins, zwei, drei! Eins, zwei, drei! Achtung! Guide right!"

That's when I ripped Sigmund Freud off my finger and threw him in the washing machine.

Then I put on my jacket and went to the nearest coffee bar for an espresso "doppio."
A double. I deserved it. I sat outside and listened to the happy Romans laughing with
their amici, gesturing wildly, embracing life and each other, taking the good and the bad,
rolling it all into a big ball of dough, flattening it out, sprinkling it with tomato sauce and
mozzerella and baking it for one minute in a wood oven, taking it out and eating it in
giant globbity gulps.

Now that's my kinda therapy!

Higher Ground

Living is so depressing.

I don't care what you say.
It is constantly, endlessly depressing.

You can try and fake it and even start thinking that you just need some medication
to make you feel better because YOU'RE the one with "this problem."

And so you get some drug or other from your local candyman-slash-doctor who is
in with big Pharma and after awhile you begin to think, "hey, the world isn't so bad,"
and then immediately the walls start to vibrate, gasses escape through the cracks,
and all animals with a lick of sense (like those blackbuck antelopes in India during
the 2004 Tsunami) head up to higher ground and you just
watch them galloping away, scratching your head, going wtf!,
and then, WHAM!, something hits you upside the head and
a whipped cream pie flies in your face and then there you
are lying on the pavement
alone...
except for the flies buzzing around the whipped cream
and the stampeding others who have made the realization
that "oh, hey, maybe the blackbucks had the right idea!"

But you just lay there going, "blink, blink" with your eyeballs,
knowing that no matter how innocent and nice you are and no matter how many times you say,
"I'm sorry," to people in the grocery store every time you push your cart between them and the
never-ending cans of Campbells Soup they're reading on the wall...

You are totally screwed!

It's like that Timothy Geiger-Counter guy. I mean who made him King of the World?
Here he is illustrating how he grabbed the financial balls of our
nation and squeezed them dry of every penny he and his pals
at Goldman's could get and, I don't care what you say, this guy
is up to no good. Now, I am only basing this opinion on photos
I've seen since I have NEVER seen this man on television or
heard him speak. But, like those antelopes in India, if it smells
like a duck...run!

If I were Obama I'd fire that sucker.


Which is exactly how I felt yesterday as I was rushing to hear the marching band playing
the Mickey Mouse song out in front of St. Peter's Basilica. I was with The Man and we
were on our way to get some reservations to take the underground Vatican tour, not
realizing that it was a holiday, The Feast of the Epiphany, so that St. Peter's was jammed
with people there to see the Pope and the parade.

Now, we've been living here during the winter for...oh...only five million years, and did we
know anything about this annual parade?

NO!

Which is so mysterious I'm sure Jacques Cousteau is going to rise from the dead just to
try and solve it.

Anyway, there we are stumbling head-on into this big-deal Catholic parade with medieval
peasants and Roman centurions on horseback (MIU's - Men In Uniforms! I mean we're
talking scarlet-plumed helmets and gold breast plates and everything!) and I start
videoing the worst parade video EVER made, all the while going "oh, oh, oh," and thinking
that The Man is right there behind me keeping up, because it's so obvious that I am in my
little-girl-going-to-the-Pasadena-Rose-Parade mode, all excited and giddy, overdosed on
hot chocolate with marshmallows in it.

But then I stop and look around and The Man is no where to be seen. He is not behind
me. He has disappeared. I want to keep filming the action, but I'm worried that he has
fallen into a manhole or been arrested for having criminally wild and unkempt hair (a sure
sign if there ever was one of a troublemaker).

But, then I see him. He's over there on the sidewalk, hunched over.

Is is sick?
Is he injured?
Is he having some kind of a fit?

No! He has stopped to TAKE OUT HIS PEN AND SCRAP OF PAPER TO WRITE
DOWN SOME COMMENTS FOR SOME POEM HE'S GOING TO WRITE!!!

This I found totally unacceptable and, had I been Obama, I would have fired him on the spot!

In conclusion, if you don't believe they played the Mickey Mouse song in front
of St. Peter's Basilica, then watch this!

The irony of this choice of song...
to a certain someone...
up there in his ivory tower...
in his ermine-collared robe...
with his Gucci red slippers...
must have been, on the biblical scale,...
totally depressing!

La Befana

Today is the Feast of the Epiphany,
otherwise known as La Befana.

Befana is a witch who brings toys
and candy to the good children
and a lump of coal to the bad children.

The Italians have finally brought to
a close their holiday season which all
began almost a month ago with the
Immaculate Conception, which occured
on the 8th of December.

Ever since, it's been holidays and "bridges" (those days between the holidays
that aren't worth going to work over because, "hey, tomorrow's another holiday!")

But, now, sadly, it's all over. Time to go back to work and school. Time for Italians
to grit their teeth and suffer until the next series of holidays begin.

Carnevale starts on February 6th! Good ol' Lent.

Anyway, we were out there today and here's a video clip of The Man to prove it.