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.