Canada In Secret Talks To Trade Quebec For Florida

History does not record the existence of a single Canadian who has not wished his nation had a bit of tropical diversity.

As chilliness North of Niagara would have it, Ottawa has had an ongoing freeze-on, freeze-off relationship with the relatively trendy Province of Quebec, that charming faux-French survival of the Sun King’s proud misjudgments about the importance of the new world.

Now, Canadian legislators have given voice to the sunny idea, Let’s see if we can swap the independent-minded province for Florida.

The offer comes at a particularly opportune time, as a result of the unusually severe hurricanes that have been selecting the Sunshine State as a favorite destination.

The Bush administration has agreed to consider the proposal but admits that there are certain difficulties. For instance, the President will have to explain to his brother and closet presidential wannabe, Jeb, that he’s now a Canadian and can no longer run for President.

To make the loss of their palm-treed haven more palatable to Americans, the Canadians have volunteered to teach everybody in Florida how to speak French. Once, they reason, Florida is enlivened with the sounds of bon jour and merci beaucoup, the switch will seem as uneventful as just swapping one champagne and brie festooned place for another.

Book Of Judas Finds Publisher; Record Wait Took 1700 Years

The Book of Judas, penned by the much maligned apostle himself, has finally found a publisher, at the end of a long search that ended at The National Geographic Society.

No, it’s not Random House or Knopf. But, hey, after a 1700-year wait, any publisher is bound to come as good news.

Now, Judas can at long last be assured that the world will know his side of the story, in which he portrays himself, as author’s are prone to do, in a much more favorable light than tradition has placed him. According to the author, while he was the apostle who betrayed Jesus, he was actually Christ’s favorite apostle and was chosen by Jesus to do the reprehensible deed, so Jesus could fulfill what he considered to be his destiny.

So, as if we didn’t have enough reconsider, now we have to reevaluate our estimate of Judas. Was he really just being Christ’s obedient assistant?

We must sympathize with the most devout adherents to the New Testament. What are they to make of Judas’s revised version of the betrayal?

We assume there will be no shortage of debate.

Nor can we, even if we wish, refuse to acknowledge that a certain reluctance to accept the new author’s version will be due to the unfortunate timing of the publication, since the hopes of the world are presently encumbered by the recent parade of people in the Middle East who seem to think that their destiny requires them to seek their own deaths.

No doubt the author would have preferred a more auspicious time for his book to appear, ideally, of course, way back when it might still have at least have had some chance of getting into The Bible.

Bill Gates to Devote Life To Charity; Make Money And You Can, Too

Bill Gates announced that he will transition out of his day-to-day role at Microsoft by July 2008 in order to spend more time working on the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which focuses on global health and education.

His announcement reminded us of the plethora of graduation speeches that eager students imbibed across the land this spring. As we listened to the meritorious goals heaped on the recent graduates, so they might achieve goals the speaker’s generation has found impossible, we could not help but think, why doesn’t somebody come out and tell the youthful aspirants what the real challenge is?

Like it or not, today’s world, as well as many another age, is conducted by two primary forces: wealth and power, and, other than resort to firearms, power springs from wealth.

So if you want to influence the ways of this outrageously necessitous world, consider the stark truth that all power springs from the opening in a fat wallet. It's called the economic basis of society but, in its current incarnation, in debilitating excess.

When we were recent graduates, we were not aware of such an uncompromising reality and passed up at least two opportunities to make megabucks because we wanted to preserve our mental energy to expend it toward the achievement of our ideals.

Had we been wiser, we would have set aside a few years to stuff our pockets with power and then, like Mr. Gates, have spent the rest of our days placidly pursuing those still-inspiriting ideals.

So we find ourselves, from our own experience, in the unlikely role of advising the most idealistic to enable their altruism by involving themselves, initially, in the activity they undoubtedly are convinced is not the most inviting.

Then, should you be fortunate enough to enable your financial independence, you may, like Mr. Gates, head off into full-time devotion to your undoubtedly meritorious idealisms.

Well, the speech probably would not have been one that would have inspired the administration to invite us back or that the students would have received with endorsement, but the sharp glass on the road through economic necessity is a fact not lightly to be dismissed. Ignore it and you may step on it with painful frequency.

Bill Clinton In Secret Talks With Hillary; Agrees To Run For Vice President

Former President Bill Clinton has been holding secret talks with his wife and wannabe President Hillary and has, the rumor mill informs us, agreed to be her Vice Presidential candidate.

In an exclusive interview, he confided, “Even though I want to help Hillary in every way I can, it wasn't an easy decision. After all, if you remember, I was the President. But, since I’ll be back in the White House, I decided I would rather have more to keep myself busy than just being America’s First Man."

So, as 2008 draws nigh and the inevitable blizzard of questions to her on who she hopes to name as her running mate go discreetly unanswered, just remember you heard it here first that the resourceful husband and wife team plan to make another run for the White House.

Given the current state of America’s feelings about the comeuppances of the Republican tenure, there is actually a very high likelihood that the dedicated duo could once again be frolicking in the realms of Presidential empowerment. Only this time we would, of course, have President Hillary Clinton and Vice President Bill Clinton.

While Democrats cheer, Republicans may double over with wails of dread, while they reach out with hopeful hands for the now-flirtatious Rudy or the ever-coy Jeb.

Basketball For Short People: Basket To Be Lowered

Since the 1950s, when short but fast players had a chance of making it onto a professional court – such as the legendary Bob Cousy of the Boston Celtics, known for startling innovations like dribbling and passing behind the back – the sport has been dominated by ever taller athletes, starting with the arrival of Wilt, The Stilt, Chamberlain.

Now, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of who fall within the usual range of human height and that it has positively devastated short people.

Compared to the slam-dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes just can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. As a result, interest in the game as a participation sport has waned, and the association is concerned that, as fewer people work up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.

In an effort to return basketball to the widely poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the American public before it became the exclusive province of players whose mothers are suspected of stretching them as infants, the association is considering legitimizing a court just for people of average height, with a special accommodation for shorter people. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” and two feet for people who are even shorter but still imagine slam-dunking the ball and hanging from the hoop in a celebratory manner.

When the new rules go into effect, virtually everyone will finally be able to play the game in as dramatic a fashion as today’s seven footers.

For now the plan calls for limiting the innovation to amateur players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in watching average-size people play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire new league, made up of speed merchants who are only eye-high to a current pro’s elbows.

Baby Boomers Moderate Exercise; Notice Scarcity of Seniors In Marathons

Baby boomers, who exercise more than any generation before them, have been flocking to orthopedic surgeons to tend to their aching tendons and joints.

As news of the growing need for surgical intervention spread, a number of boomers have found the willpower to moderate the intensity of their workout routines.

Personal experience has also confirmed the wisdom of moderation. For example, one inveterate marathoner was shocked by the surprising perception that there were not a lot of senior citizens dashing across the finish line in the New York Marathon.

He began to wonder if at a certain age less strenuous activity might actually be, not only the better part of healthcare, but all that’s generally possible. He also began to ask himself if seniors who persisted in intense physical challenges like the marathon were absent at or near the finish line because they literally dropped by the wayside. He dismissed that possibility, because it really brought into question his hope for up-to-the-last-minute youth.

He shared the possible advisability of moderation with a fellow boomer, who happened to be his girlfriend. She agreed to take it into consideration but required proof of the astonishing comeuppance. So, while working out at her gym, she looked around and noticed, to her amazement, that there were not a lot of seniors sweating along with her, especially on the running track and in the weight room.

Most unsettling of all, she noticed that a confounded lot of the runners looked younger than she did.

She dared to break the stunning revelation to a friend, who told her boyfriend. Since hot news has a way of making it through the boomer vine, soon the bewildered generation was abuzz with the invitation to moderation.

Being serious about their health, many have researched the bone-crushing consequences of persistent over-exercise and have discovered that that they really should take it a little easy on themselves, especially since many of them are flirting with age 60. It seems that if they can persuade themselves of the wisdom at least some moderation they will go a long way toward preserving their knees, ankles, and assorted joints, tendons, and muscles. They could also save on visits to the surgeon.

As expected, however, hard-line boomers are adopting an over-exercise-until-you-drop attitude.

As one recalcitrant member of the group said, “Hey, it’s like exercising came with the genes. I can’t change my routine anymore than I can change my feet, which wake up every morning, ready to run for miles.”

This group is so determined they plan to exercise excessively, even if it means hobbling into old age due to self-inflicted hobbling. As another member of the over-exercise or you’re over-the-hill group stated, ”Look, if I’m going to need a knee replacement or two, I might as well be one of the first in my generation to get one.”

Avant Garde Composer Creates New Piece, Called Making Popcorn

An American avant garde composer, who takes his inspiration from the most upstart composers of recent times, had a piece performed last night at Carnegie Hall, titled “Making Popcorn.”

The Boston Pops Orchestra, which commissioned the piece, left the stage to make way for the performance.

Stagehands then wheeled out a popcorn-making machine and prepared it for the performance by filling it with dry corn, butter, and salt.

When the machine was “tuned,” the composer entered to conduct his own work. Taking the podium, he raised his baton and the machine was switched on. When the first kernel popped, he gave a firm downbeat and then continued to conduct as the kernels popped away. The piece concluded when all the popcorn had contributed its sound.

In an interview prior to the concert, the composer told us, “It’s a new piece for percussion. As you know, there have been more additions to the percussion of the orchestra than to any other one. Take, for instance, the brake drum and the ratchet, which is really just a noisemaker. My hope is that the success of my new piece will make the popcorn machine a standard ingredient of the symphony orchestra.”

“Would you consider it to be a tuned or an untuned percussion instrument,” we asked, indulging the wayward simpleton.

“I’m not sure yet,” he told us. “While the individual pops do have different pitches, they’re impossible to control.”

After savoring the performance, this observer began to long for the once-scandalous composition by John Cage, called 4'33", in which, as you probably know, a pianist enters, sits down at the piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds,, and does absolutely nothing. Then he gets up and exits.

Who would have though a concert would come when one reconsidered Cage's work an instance of generous reticence?

Audit Report on Katrina Debit Cards; Some Recipients Swam In Champagne

A federal audit on the spending proclivities of people who were issued debit cards by FEMA during the Katrina disaster indicates that some of them were swimming in champagne – and good stuff, too.

Among the survival rations that were purchased, we find a $200 bottle of champagne, used as a life-saving device at the hurricane shelter known as Hooters. The establishment, upon hearing of the purchase, has nobly agreed to refund the amount to FEMA.

Other items that emergency cards were used to purchase are the following:

A flotation device of questionable effect, called diamond jewelry.

An escape route from the rising waters to a vacation in the Dominican Republic.

Salvation from a divorce lawyer by paying off a $1,000 legal bill.

Drying out at a strip club, where the recuperative process required $600.

Recuperation with $400 of “adult erotica products.”

The auditors concluded that such purchases were "not necessary to satisfy legitimate disaster needs."

Greg Kutz, a GAO forensic auditor, said one "fraudster" way up in West Virginia received a rental assistance check by using the address of a cemetery in New Orleans.

Another application, employing a vacant lot as an address, found favor in FEMA for a payment of $2,358 in rental assistance.

The relief organization also paid $8,000 and then $5,000 more, in a double-dip into rental assistance, to help a long-suffering recipient survive at a resort hotel in Honolulu.

The GAO also found that FEMA lost track of 750 debit cards, worth a total of $1.5 million.

As a result of the debit-card debacle, FEMA itself has been scheduled to receive federal disaster relief.

Another Dracula, Another Flop

This week Warner Brothers joined the Walt Disney company in attempting to transform Broadway from a venue with a whisper of hope for social relevance into one that presents works that are the intellectual equivalent of Mickey Mouse caper.

If Disney could do it with, for example, The Lion King, why couldn’t Warner Brothers find a property to achieve Broadway fame and fortune with? Unfortunately, their imaginations never soared higher than redoing the Dracula legend, based on a contemporary author’s odd novelistic take on it.

In order to hew to Disney’s proven path to moronic megabucks, Warner hired the same songwriting team Disney did for The Lion King, Elton John and his comparatively invisible lyricist Bernie Taupin.

Fortunately, the show was a no-go from the start. The word of mouth was devastating and the reviews turned out to make the word of mouth sound brilliant.

The question is, why would anybody, given the entire world of properties to choose from or, on a wild bet, even to create an entirely original one, choose the exhausted and irrelevant legend of Dracula?

As we of say about trying to work with an idea that doesn’t seem to have a life of its own, you can stand up a dead body, but you can’t make it sing and dance, and, once you let go, it’s bound to fall down.

Ancient Mayan Mummy Proves A Tattoo Is Forever

Evidence of the extraordinary longevity of tattoos has finally been discovered, in a mummified Mayan female whose panoramic tattoos have lasted almost two thousand years.

Tattoo artists were ecstatic at the discovery, immediately citing the mummy as proof that once you’re lucky enough to have a tattoo, you can forget about upkeep.

On the other hand, those who have decorated themselves with tattoos but in later years regretted the colorful self-mutilation, were widely distressed by the discovery. As one man with a prominent tattoo on the pierced tip of his nose told us, “I suspect when I’m finally old enough to feel really stupid about this tattoo it’ll still be here., Now, I know if I want to get rid of it, I’ll have to fork over the bucks for plastic surgery.”

Curiously enough, the mummy’s bones revealed what at first appeared to be dichotomous lifestyles. She was apparently motherly, because bone evidence revealed that she had given birth to a child, but a variety hardly motherly clubs were also found buried with her.

An archaeologist explained the seeming duality of tender sentiment and weaponry by stating, “My theory is that she went to the grave, regretting the tattoos and asked to be buried with clubs so she could ward off any evil spirits who might arrive to apply even more tattoos.”

America To Sue Rest Of World For Ungrateful Behavior

America, which has sacrificed the lives of its citizens and its material plentitude more selflessly than any other nation in history to come to the assistance of other countries, noted the astonishingly heated negative commentary about it emanating from virtually every corner of the globe and has decided to sue the rest of the world on the grounds of ungrateful behavior.

The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.”

A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.”

The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.”

A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.”

Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable.

Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.”

The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.”

Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is.

One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument.

As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”

America: Still So Young No Americans Allowed

If sometimes, weighed down with the complexities of uneasy empire, we perchance wonder if America could be freedom’s fading star, it’s somewhat reassuring to realize that the nation is so young it still does not recognize the existence of Americans. Even the Indians don’t completely get the nod, because they’re still camped out on reservations.

We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences.

Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?”

“I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.”

“No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?”

“Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.”

“Then where did your father come from?”

Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply?

“Oh, so you’re Irish.”

Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands.

“Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA.

And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes.

Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.

A Revised History Of Pasta

While Marco Polo, a Venetian, is generally given credit for discovering noodles in China, recent research suggests that Italian pasta in all its glorious varieties was actually discovered in Rome nearly a century earlier, and quite by accident, by a remarkably unlikely epicurean named Julius Amplonius, with the able assistance of an invading barbarian named Klunk, The Great.

The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”

Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.

“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.

“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.

“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”

Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.

“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.

“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”

“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.

Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.

Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.

“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.

Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.

Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”

The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”

“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.

“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”

The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.

“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.

“Klunk,” the barbarian said.

“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.

“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.

“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”

“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.

“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”

“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.

“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”

Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”

“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”

“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.

“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”

“Plate?”

“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”

“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.

“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”

“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.

“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”

“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”

“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”

“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.

Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.

Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”

Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.

Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”

Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”

Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”

Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.

Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”

Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”

Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”

Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.

Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.

So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”

Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.

Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”

All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”

A Life Of Lorenzo Da Ponte: Talent Flies; Practical Reason Walks

Among the world’s favorite operas, we find three of them with a libretto penned by Lorenzo Da Ponte and music by none other than the astonishingly delightful Viennese ear-confectioner Mozart. The list is a delight in itself: The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovann, and Così Fan Tutte.

We learn in the new book, The Librettist of Venice, by Rodney Bolt, that Da Ponte grew so close with the unequalled Mozart – both of whom, we learn, were not only talented but vain, insecure and ambitious – that while writing Don Giovanni, they worked in adjoining lodges and shouted to each other through their windows.

Da Ponte even dared to contend with Mozart, who believed the text should be subservient to the music, while Da Ponte was certain that the words should be primary, in fact, that without his poetry even Mighty Mo’s music would be nothing.

Yet how Da Ponte tumbled from the heights. Hard as it may be to imagine, he wound up in New York, running, at one time, a grocery store on the Bowery.

Brilliant as an artist, he was apparently, in his personal life, a managerial moron. Or, said another way, while talent flies, practical reason just plods along, like a relative moron.

Da Ponte, born Jewish, was, as a result of his father’s having decided the family should become Catholic for the easement of a life of trade, ordained a priest. But his real vocation was married women. His exploits, we learn, rivaled Casanova, who became his pal and, if we believe such a thing is possible in the category at hand, his mentor.

Da Ponte himself admitted a shortcoming in comparison with his rival for insincere relationships: he didn’t have Casanova’s purported talent for fleecing the women he falsely wooed. In fact, Da Ponte claims he actually loved the ones he made out with.

He also considered himself adroit politically, but his moves were disastrous. He upset the successors of Joseph II so much he was exiled from Vienna.

Now,still technically a priest he was married to a younger but more wisely practical woman named Nancy Grahl, but even she was unable to keep the man out of bankruptcy in London and again in America, where they moved in 1805, because her family had settled here.

He attempted to establish Italian opera companies when English-speaking audiences had little interest in them. To add onions to opera, the grocery business failed.

He finally became a teacher, bookseller and wannabe impresario.

On the positive side, New York turned out to be the most agreeable spot for him. It was relatively liberal, and Da Ponte found himself a favorite of the cultural elite.

He became the first professor of Italian at Columbia University. While the position was pretty much ceremonial, Da Ponte has the double distinction of having been the first Jew and first priest on the school’s faculty.

He lived on into his 80’s, revered but regarded as eccentric.

He was charming man who made a profession of being European when such a state was still considered novel.

Yet when one compares his everyday doings with his winged collaboration with Mozart, one can only shake his head with the recognition of how quicksilver brilliant the remarkable syntheses of talent are, way up in mental processes we can only hope will drop answers into our expectant consciousness, compared to the "first we do this and then we do that" plodding of the practical but still invaluable mind.

A Cialis A Day Keeps The Uncertainty Away

The maker of Cialis will apply to the FDA for approval of a once-a-day version of its ED treatment. The company maintains that a daily dose will allow the benefactor to enjoy more spontaneous delight than he can with what the manufacturer refers to as its "on demand" version.

The company maintains that side effects of the new dosage are mild and consist primarily of an inexplicable bulge in the pantaloons.

Dr. Ira D. Sharlip, professor of urology at the Univesity of California, San Francisco, stated, "For patients who are more sexually active, which generally means younger patients, whose sexual activity is more spontaneous, it will be an attractive alternative, provided the cost is not prohibitive."

Until now, men had to take Cialis and other impotence drugs thirty minutes or more before they flung themselves into the arms of their lovers. Now they’ll be ready at the drop of a belt.

Some analysts doubt that millions of men will take the drug every day, since the biggest users of the therapy generally have sex only a couple of times a week.

Insurance companies may also refuse to pay for a daily dose.

Interestingly, a Cialis a day may also have cardiovascular benefits, since the enzyme that Cialis, as well as other impotence drugs, inhibits, flows in all the body’s blood vessels. As a result, the drug may be an effective treatment for high blood pressure.

An expert stated, "There may be a much bigger picture than just for erectile dysfunction."

He certainly chose his adjective well, since “bigger” does seem to be the operative word here, except in regard to the one item Cialis does, at its best, reduce the size of, and that is, of course, the performance anxiety, or uncertainty, of the aspiring lover.

No Pulitzer For Drama; No Wonder

This year, when The Pulitzer Prizes were announced, the not entirely delightful news is that no Pulitzer was awarded in drama.
While the decision is unsettling, the prudence of it must be acknowledged, since, affection for the theater and those who make it aside, there was no drama to consider.
Let us have the courage to ask why and, along the way, try our best to understand everybody’s culpability or innocence.
If you keep tabs on Broadway, just so you’ll know if, by some surprising concatenation of events, a drama you might actually be interested in seeing comes along, you know that the usual fare this past season was once again a series of enthusiastically promoted trifles.
But the financial realities on Broadway make it exceedingly chancy for producers to put up anything that isn’t already proven at the box office and, even more importantly, with the critics, who can even disable a previous box-office success. All very understandable. The producers are not in the business of nourishing unproven works, no matter how worthy they may suspect or be advised they are. Not understandable.
The small and regional theaters are seldom managed by people who have any sense of what mainstream appeal might be or they very likely wouldn’t be working in a little or regional theater. Perfectly understandable.
Even if a small or regional theater puts up a work that might attract a wider audience than the reliable coterie whose interests are decidedly offbeat, the likelihood that a well-known critic or even a second-string critic will show up is discouraging. Understandable. During the theater season, little theaters put up shows with withering frequency in New York and all over the country. The critics whose names people might known do not flock to any production that doesn’t have some kind of major preproduction cache. Their primary job is to review the little shows in the big venues, not the remotely possible big show in a little venue, and their secondary job, should they occasionally be inspired to assume its obligations, is to cherry pick smaller productions that present some precondition of influential interest. Also understandable.
The current crop of critics, when confronted by a work in any theatrical venue that smacks of being mainstream, are unlikely to find it suits their own offbeat temperaments. Not understandable. It is such temperamental selectivity that prevented, among countless lesser knows, a relatively mainstream playwright like Arthur Miller from getting a rave review during the last two or three decades of his life, and even a popular confectioner like Neil Simon from getting one for many years.
The inescapable fact is, offbeat people usually prefer offbeat works. Very understandable. We’re all human.
But what would be really refreshing is for a major critic or two to surface whose tastes would incline them to help nourish intelligent theater that deals with the major text and subtext of contemporary mainstream American life. Once we were fortunate enough to have them, like the legendary Brooks Atkinson and the more recent Walter Kerr, we could be far more hopeful that mainstream works would have a chance of surfacing. After all, critics are the first significant audience for any work, and so they are necessary partners in the attempt to rejuvenate intelligent and widely relevant American theater.
As for the playwrights, we must understand their plight, too. Simply put, comes the hopeful new playwright with a mainstream sensibility, where can he hope to find an outlet? And, if he does, can he hope to have a critic show up, let alone one who is on the same page with his sensibility? Quite a rare – and, year after year, an apparently impossible – combination.
Even Actors Equity is aligned against the poor talented soul. Should the playwright somehow find a theater that will put us his or her work, he or she will get what is known as a showcase presentation, which provides for four weeks of rehearsal and a four-week run, possibly extended to five weeks. Since the rehearsals must be conducted with actors who have to participate in their spare time, due to the meager honorariums showcase appearances provide, it’s difficult to get a production that does the work justice. And a four-week run simply is not long enough to build word of mouth.
Between the scarcity of venues that have a predisposition toward a playwright who has a sensibility that might reach mainstream America, the difficulty of getting a production that showcases the work in a way that renders whatever excellence it may hold, the brevity of the run, and the scarcity of critics who might arrive, compounded by the unlikely prospect that any who do might appreciate it, can we blame the playwright who finally decides that he’s involved in a hopeless puzzle that, at best, is merely baby sitting him as an intellectual. Is it any wonder that he may sulk between disappointing efforts and finally walk away into a writing career where there is some hope of getting somewhere. Understandable, at least.
So there you have, as best as we can explain it, why no Pulitzer was awarded for drama.
But we could never leave you without whatever hope there might be.
The one factor that hasn’t yet entered contemporary theater that has influenced, for better or worse, film and television, is the advent of the self-funded writer-producer. Considering the gauntlet that faces the mainstream playwright without his or her own resources, such a writer-producer, maligned as he may initially be as self-aggrandizing by the theatrical establishment, may be the only hope left.
Meanwhile, we must reluctantly admit, better not to award the Pulitzer at all than to award it to a trifle, masquerading as a piece of consequence. At least, some sort of standard has been indicated.