Pan de los Muertos

° Qui mi siedo per dire niente a nessuno. S'intende.
° Stamattina, mentre Quezelcoatl e Sorella Luna condividevano il regno del cielo orientale, mi sono alzato, ho fatto il caffè, ho ascoltato la Suor Angelica, ho offerto un piccolino pan de los muertos alla tomba della mia bimba Asia, ho detto la Messa omnium defunctorum.
° E poi--qui mi siede.
° E' apparsa la morta durante la Semain? Sì. L'ho sognata due volte, l'ho vista viva nella loggia.
° E' miracolo?
° E' cosa tutta normale?--Giac a Maurizio

Popping the Question

° No sooner had little Akbar shown me the fotos of his brother's wedding, and of himself dancing, stripped to the waist, through the fountain jets of the plaza later that evening, than I popped the question.
° Well, it wasn't that question.
° Said I to little Akbar: "To whom did the oil belong, in Goin' to Town (Paramount, 1935)? To Buck, the cattle rustler who'd parlayed other folks' critters into a gigantic Wild West ranch? To Mae, the danseuse who'd won his spread fair and square, by losing at craps? To British Petroleum, whose employee had discovered and drilled the oilfields? To Taho the manservant, whose ancestors had owned the land for millennia, till it was stolen from them by the application of Chinese gunpowder and European steel? To all Americans in common? To all humans in common? To all generations of all humans in trust? To the timber rattlers and scorpions too?
° He was too wise to answer such a mug's question, and reran the flicklet.--Giac to Maurizio

Guys Not Getting

Caro Maurizio,
° Non scrivo da molto tempo. Perché?
° Perché. Capito?

° I was tucking into some very munchy asparagus and feta with ripe olives and sweet peppers when in he came. I stared rudely and appreciatively. He stared back. Twice.
° All I could think was, "Where's Caravaggio when he could be of some earthly use?"
° Prince Romolo's face really appeared to have been drawn by an artist, not conglomerated from semen and eggyolk. Every feature as perfect as could be, and the chin, just onequarter inch short, an act of genius, it suffused the entire design with Venus. When he sat between me and the glass, I measured his eyelashes against those of a very attractive female at the next table. She came off like a plucked and singed chicken.
° Of course, Prince Romolo is the norm in Rome, or, at least, is always just around the corner. But in America, in Overton?
° He seemed melancholy, peoplewatched, left as alone as he had entered.
° Because, of course, no local male and very few females could appear with him as a plausible couple.
° Poor Prince Romolo.

§

° Later, at the Y, I was directing healing hot jets of water at my sore spots, and noticing that the muscleguy opposite was doing likewise, though the spot at which he was directing the stroking currents--.
° In he came. Old King Zophuktup. Seventy if he was a day. Obese by American standards, grossly obese by mine. And his ankles--my goodness, they were purple clear around from his heels to halfway up the calves.
° I considered how quickly I could exit the whirlpool without appearing--though there was not broken skin, I reckon his disease was not contagious. I hope not.
° And then the steamroom. And here came King Zophuktup. And I tucked my legs onto the bench, lest he play footsie. Meanwhile everyone else fled. And then I was too tenderhearted to flee. And then King Zophuktup began to play with himself. And then I fled unseeing to the showers and home and hope to goodness my ankles don't go gangrenous.

§§§§§

° Moral of the story? Well there isn't any.
° Except--that it's better to be isolated from humanity because you're too phine, than because you're too phat and phuktup.
° Though how do I know? Or you either?--Giac to Maurizio

Bottom and Tops

° I turned aside at the last minute (the car in front led the way, a Crazy Radio New Dimensions leading) to Café Cocco. For Killer of Sheep was showing across town in 20 minutes.
° And there he was, the one to whom led. Ynaq.
° Ynaq with his hair all trimmed into a mohawk, but not waxed up. Just a soft and inviting trickle of soft tan fur from forehead to nape.
° It was Midsomer, my submind had been whistling Mendelssohn, and I just popped out the first thing that came to my tongue: "Bottom, thou art quite translated!"
° Whereupon Ynaq retorted that--well I blushed clear to the roots of my own hairy ass's ears. Curse Shakespeare.
° "Right-ho," I replied meekly.

§

° In my coffee scum a perplexing figure: an extraordinarily mishapen sheep? I put it down to inept wizardry on Ynaq's part.
° But lo and behold, it was the dogmask the daughter wore in Killer of Sheep.
° So as wizard, at any rate, Ynaq is tops.--Giac to Coz

Horsing Around

° Zoo.
° When a woman goes through her guy's wallet and finds a foto of his preceding girlfriend, she should definitely write Dear Abby.
° When a woman searches her guy's wallet and finds a nooner motel receipt, she should definitely write Carolyn Hax.
° When a woman rifles her guy's wallet and finds a foto with phone number and rates of some 18something poxyassed hustler, she should definitely resort to Amy Alkon.
° But when a woman investigates her guy's wallet and finds an intimate foto of an Arabian stallion's--
° --well, she may as well just pout and ask pathetically, "What can he give you that I can't?" for all the good it'll do.--Giac to Lad

Holster

° Cornelia reminisces about her grandfather, back in West Arkansas.
° "He was considered very genteel. Not only was he an Episcopalian, he actually went so far as to remove his gun-holster before going up for Communion."--Giac to Piers

Let 'er RIP

Falwell was a remarkably gifted demagogue who never let Jesus stand in the way of the pursuit of fame and power.--Giac to Piers

Less of It

° "Whatever happens, I know I'm exactly where God wants me to be." So said the fixingtobe second runnerup in the Regional Metropolitan Opera Competition, just before her kindly judge made mincemeat of her. On international HD big screen broadcast.
° Peace be upon her. But every scalawag scoundrel running for president, congress, or ghetto pimp will be quoted as saying the exact same thing repeatedly till election day.
° Humanists are too polite to label this speechifying the hubris it is.
° Deists are too gutless to label this speechifying the blasphemy it is.
° Only Bertie Wooster had sense enought to retort, "Less of it!"
° So why should the Fool hesitate to reply to the hopeful, "Ah but dear, when you come to think about it, how else could it be?"--Giac to Piers

All Akbar, All the Time

(For one reason or another I never posted these echoes of the progress of my friendship with Akbar--Giac.)

24 settembre mmvi--"Outpoped"

Dear Akbar,
° You may've forgotten, but I haven't.
° "You have done been outPoped," said I as you approached with an offering of bubbledancing chai. You didn't believe me then, and that's how come you didn't spill it and scald us both.
° It was the occasion of the Holy Father's casually and IAmSoVerySure unpremeditated characterisation, during a scholarly lecture on SomebodyNobodyEverHeardOf, of Islam as--well, let's leave the exact quote to Don Imus.
° In one corner, a 79yearold professional religionist who grew up under the tough Roman Imperialism of the preSweetPopeJohnXXIII Council, singleminded, “God’s rottweiler,” in possession of the best and most ancient pr staff money can buy.
° In the opposite corner, a bazillion individual Muslims (and two or three turkeygobbler Congresses, no savvier than our own), each reacting without premeditation or coordination or central leader.
° And who scored the tko?

§§§§§

The reaction to disturbance is the disturbance.

° Itoldyouhowitwouldbe, Giac.

26 settembre mmvi--"Rubbing It In"

Dear Akbar,
° I am gratified that you acknowledge that I was right, but it distresses me that you were surprised that I was.
° Here are your questions for the day.

1. Did the Bishop of Rome Reaganly misspeak himself? (Or was it intentional?)
2. What did he hope to achieve?
3. What did he achieve?
4. Do you have any further questions?

§

1. No. (Yes.)
2. “Evangelical parity” in Muslim majority nations. Cioè, the right to send missionaries to Saudi Arabia, ecc., build churches, extend his own empire.
3. So many things:
a. Turkey can just give up all hope of entering the European Union.
b. The European Union is now united (the Left has joined the Right) in considering itself fundamentally and historically Christian, cioè, nonJewish, nonMuslim.
c. “Muslim leaders” are expected in Rome any day now to “renew dialogue.”
d. Every nonMuslim throughout the world has been invited, almost instructed, to increase his or her fear of Islam.
4. No, you don’t.

° Butifyoudojustaskme, Giac.


12 ottobre mmvi--"Wave of Christian Terrorism Sweeps Nation"

Dear Akbar,
° Have you ever noticed that if a Tasmanian astonomer who has published a learned article on the star Aldebaran should happen to squash an insect on the windscreen of his miniCooper, his face will be plastered across the evening news as “Islamic Terrorist”?
° On the other hand, if half a dozen baptised Christians take assault rifles into the nearest schoolhouses and rape and murder schoolgirls, their faces are plastered across the evening news as “Man” or “Teenage Boy”?
° Why is this?
° Because your generation has not yet risen through the American news organisations, so that you can ask your own colleagues, "Why?"
° And because your parents' generation has never perfected the art of writing charmingly funny yet hardasnails letters to the editor, to suggest “Why not . . . .?”
° For “Islamofascist,” why not “fascist”? ((You know why not.))
° For “Jihadist,” why not “self-styled ((or)) so-called Jihadist”? ((You know why not.))
° For “decorated veteran,” why not “mass random murderer of civilians”? ((Even I know why not.))
° The hardasnails is easy. It’s the charmingly funny that takes the effort.

° Effortlessly, Giac.

12 ottobre mmvi--"Curds and Whey"

Dear Akbar,
° You missed the Festival of Cultures last weekend. There were Masai dancers, Chinese Lion Dancers, Cajun zydeco dancers, Caribbean steel drums accompanying Island dancers, Mexican pole flyers, Celtic reelers, Burundi drummers with spearwielding dance troupe, Tahitian hula dancers, Hindu kuchipudi dancers, Latin tango, Greek pastries and boys frolicking in kilts, European ballet dancers in tutus, native American tribal dancers, even Apalachian folksingers a'cloggin'.
° The entire white black yellow tan Christian Buddhist Hindu Confucian Pagan Witchdoctor--everybody was there.
° And lonesome as could be, Kurdistan represented the entire Islamic universe.

§

° Do you love to rate folks on the Internet? I do. But I feel bad when I give them low numbers, so I puff them a little.
° Can you rate by somebody else‘s standards? I mean, can you rate these folks from the standpoint of The Average American? Favourable, Neutral, Unfavourable.

Saudi Arabian
Arab

Kuwait

India
Pakistan
Bangladesh

Iran

Persia

Kashmir
Sri Lanka
Ceylon
Indonesia
Algeria
Morocco

Nigeria
Sudan
Ethiopia

Libya

Sunni
Shiite
Wahabi

KURD

° Yes, Grasshopper, you have achieved perfection.
° The very word “Arab” makes Americans see red. This is because Saudi Arabia has singlehandedly made possible our economic expansion and prosperity ever since we used up our own oil.
° Kuwait is a happymaking term. It represents the only War (outside Grenada) the U. S. Army has won since WWII.
° Akbar in Pakistan is a harbourer of the Taliban. Akbar a mile across the border in India is a fellow former British colonist. Akbar in Bangladesh is a posterchild for Tsunami Relief Efforts.
° Iran bad. Persia magnificent.
° You mean they don’t call it Ceylon anymore? You mean there’re Muslims in Kashmir, fancy that.
° AIDS FAMINE MALARIA MACHETES AFRICA.
° Libya--I’ve heard of it, but can’t quite remember why.
° What? Who?
° Kurds? We ought to make them our 51st state. Kurds are brave, efficient, nonterrorist, handsome, good--and it’s just mean of Turkey and Iran not to cede them giant hunks of territory. Maybe the Pope can make Turkey do it.
° It’s all pr.
° All.

° Sitting on a tuffet, Giac.

15 ottobre mmvi--"Dioses"

Dear Akbar,
° We have agreed that the rise of China to world dominance means one thing above all others: you and I both will starve, for there is no hope of learning such a squiggly language (even if you have already mastered Arabic, Urdu, a smattering of Hindi, and Spanish).
° Imagine then my surprise to behold the following headline in La Voz::

Cancelan opera por miedo
a Islamistas
Se decapita a Mahoma
y otros dioses

° It seems that Mozart’s Idomeneo has been cancelled at the Berlin Opera. Why?
° Not because the operahouse has received threats of violence, but because the director suddenly noticed that the staging (debuted 2003, Hans Neuenfels) has Idomeneo offer to sacrifice his son, to obtain safe passage home from the Trojan War, to Buddha, to Jesus, and to Mahomet. And it occurred to her that this might could offend Muslims.
° Well Idomeneo must’ve had right smart foresight ca. 1000 B.C.E. to’ve thought of these “dioses” instead of his own Poseidon.
° Germans are outraged.
° But not at the director, not at the designer, not at Mozart, not at Idomeneo, not at Buddhists, not at Christians--but only at the target of the headline. Figurati.

° In any language, Giac.

15 aprile mmvii--"301"

Dear Akbar,
° It was bad enough your being outpoped last autumn, but it's really too much that now you've done been outXerxesed.
° On one side, a bazillion of Sunni Muslims and Tony Blair, on the left one tenth of a bazillion of Shia Muslims under the baton of Iranian President Aminm-Bign-Bad.
° How did he do it? President Aminm-Bign-Bad?

° a) He consulted the playbook. He saw that the Seize the Hostages gag back in 1981 had made the U. S. tremble like an ill gelled shape served as pudding in unairconditioned Punjab.
° b) He weighed his enemy. Why shame the U. S. when he could make the same point by shaming little Britannia?
° c) He counted the costs. Bush and Blair already were idly threatening to invade Iran, "idly" because the two of 'em together hadn't a spare platoon to their names. The worst B & B could manage would be a few missiles, and even if they accidentally hit their targets, all Persia would be suddenly united as it hasn't been since--since Xerxes.
° d) He improvised in front of the cameras. As soon as all the news media were convinced that there would be no resolution of the crisis before Blair stepped down--as in the previous outing with Carter-Khomeini-Reagan--President Aminm-Bign-Bad announced that he was ready for his closeup, Mr. DeMille, and said to a stupefied Christendom: "I freely restore these captive soldiers to their native land, as an Easter gift to the people of Great Britain."
° Whereupon the collective bazillion Sunni jaws joined the collective bazillion Christian jaws around the world in dropping, while eyes goggled in a display of unusual ecumenical amity.

§

° And he got what he wanted, President Aminm-Bign-Bad.
° "Britain acknowledged that numerous diplomatic lines of communication have been opened with the government in Teheran." From pariah to undisputed leader of the Islamic world, in a single play. Wow!
° Just let me see can I find a link to Handel's most famous aria from Xerxes.

° Unstupefied, Giac.

15 aprile mmvii--"Burr under the Saddle"

Dear Akbar,
° Yes, you're right. That's what alerted me to President Aminm-Bign-Bad's pr genius. A throwaway line on NPR: "The U. S. State Department is at a loss to account for Saudi Arabia's recent behaviour, which it characterises as that of a horse with a burr under the saddle."
° For it must've been mighty hard on the Saudi Sunnis to see Bush's strategy come out right after so many reverses.
° For we must suppose that from the beginning Bush intended to partition Iraq, with both oil regions coming under the suzerainty of Persia. Which will then be in a position to detach all the Shia oilfields of the Persian Gulf from Saudi control. And together with Shia Syria (thank you, Nancy Pelosi), to emerge as the ageold Persian Empire, ancient boundaries restored.
° And then the U. S. and Persia--o wait, isn't Persia still part of Bush's Axis of Naughtiness?
° So no oil for us?

° Restupefied, Giac

Ripe (Piers)

Dear Piers,
° The other day was one of those ripe ones that will sometimes fall off the tree into one's lap.
° 1. I didn't get lost. I mean, while searching for a new local foods store in West Overton.
° 2. Not only that, I found a full dozen heirloom varieties of tomato plants, I'll feast this summer till I break out in hives.
° 3. Moreover, there was a stand of the juiciest primrose yellow oleanders, that I hadn't even been looking for.
° 4. Steamed with Steel and another very newsy guy. After Steel left, it turned out that the newsy guy speaks, but does not understand, plain English, to wit, "No, grazie."
° 5. Pizza with Steel and daughter. Candied ginger for the sourmilk gingerbread. Hari, in tiedyed t, spitcleaning the tables.
° 6. Il Trittico, live from the Met. So, the flashlight they used to use at the end of Suor Angelica (in the days before religion was stylish) finally ran out of batteries. Poor Rinuccio, poor contestants, reality tv comes to Lincoln Center.
° 7. A quick espresso and lo, there it was, rosemary flatbread. (A food critic had recently praised Pink Pony's antipasto starring fig jam, arugula, and goat cheese on rosemary flatbread.) It proved to be such foul tasting glop I'm afraid to throw it on the compost heap, might drive away the field mice, and then the kits would have nothing but moles to torment.
° 8. La Tourneuse de Pages. Loved every moment of it. Nothing wrong with it that Jeanne Moreau, a just balance between the crime and the punishment thereof, and a sort of loony irreality about the savagery couldn't've cured.
° 9. And then, just on the way to the Sri Lankan Mexican Bakery, whom dost thou think I beheld? Xak, that's who whom whose I beheld. So a ripe night was had by all.

° Sucked dry yet still somehow ripely juicy, Giac.

Belt Buckled

Dear Piers,
Ever since you moved to godless Virginia, you have, no doubt, longed for your youth in this, the very buckle of the Bible Belt.
Here are this year's Easter stats (the percentage of the County's population that actually darkened various churches' doors on Easter Sunday 2007):

Muslim--nary a one
Jewish--.01% (if she drove her pekingese up to Overton for the art glass exhibition at the Temple)
Anglican--.66%
Catholic--1.16%
Presbyterian--1.33%
Church of Christ (not affiliated in any remote way with the United Church of Christ)--4.87%
Methodist--8.17%
Southern Baptist--10.03%
Loony and, in the main, Heretical Sects--Lord only knows

Simple addition gives us a grand total of 26.23% of nonheretic locals who actually bestirred themselves to enter a church, synagogue, or mosque on Easter Sunday.
Let us round it off to a ripe 25%, here in the very buckle of the Bible Belt.

§

Conclusion?
The conclusion is that there's right smart lying going on when Americans brag to religion pollsters.
Unless it's the pollsters who're lying.

With my belt unbuckled and my pants barely covering my butt, Giac.

The Wind that Shakes the Barley (Akbar)

Dear Akbar,
° In this symbolic (miao!--English teachers never give it a rest, do they?) prefiguring of the Bush-Saddamite War of the Century, two oathtaking, uniformwearing, welldrilled armed forces are depicted: the British Army, which is fighting and bleeding and dying in order that British plutocrats may continue to lord it over Ireland (and over the British tommy's kith and kin back home); and the Irish Republican Army, which is fighting and bleeding and dying in order that Ireland may be lorded over by Irish plutocrats.
° The only other thing the two armies have in common is that neither has yet heard of "collateral damage." Consequently, both armies murder civilians in plain English.

§

° Meanwhile, as I assured an unbelieving you three months ago, the Bush-Saddamite War is over. Just this morning I heard on NPR that General Betrajus had fluttered the white flag of unconditional surrender. Quotha: "The Surge is not working."
° So now the U. S. Army joins the American people in begging and beseeching the CommanderinChief to bring back what's left of our defeated forces while there're still some forces to bring back.
° I know you think this reflects badly on the military acumen of our CommanderinChief. The utter, Viet Namlike rout, I mean.
° But no. This too is all part of the Master Plan, and bimeby I shall astound you with the cunning thereof.

° The Scots Knew What to Do with Barley, Giac.

Bargain Babies (Lad)

Dear Lad,
° Did you ever buy you that Chinese baby? (I know folks call it "adoption," but that's like Don Imus's calling "young women" "---------------.") What did she set you back?
° I only ask because Marcello tells me that there's a 5-star hotel in Guatemala City with a room all fitted out like an animal adoption pen, or an alligator pit. Guests stand around and coo to the babies and select the one that comes when called, or whose markings strike the fancy.
° Costs $10,000 per baby.
° But $9000 goes to the middlemen, only $1000 to the mother.
° So the true fair trade cost of a beautiful, healthy, partMaya baby is $1000. Plus air fare. (Though if all nations abided by NAFTA's Infant Free Trade Treaty, of which the U. S. is a founding signatory, the fair trade cost could be expected to plummet to bargain basement levels.
° And at that point it will be vastly cheaper for the Government to outsource the production of American babies rather than to continue to subsidise our native labouresses.)

§

° But don't feel cheated. At least you have the satisfaction of having rescued one little Chinese baby from the agony of memorising all those heiroglyphs.

° Sincere as always, Giac.

Digging It (Sandy)

Dear Sandy,
° 3 in the afternoon. The phone rings. I listen in case it's not vinyl siding.
° "Giac, this is ----- at the Chamber of Commerce. I have a tour group headed out your way. If not convenient, give me a call right quick."
° So that's why there was a Trained Seal in my coffee scum this morning: I immediately fall into line and make a list of mostneeded tidyingsup. As I have about 30 minutes to put the plan into place, and as the first Spring mowing is top of the list, I throw away the list and fall back.
° Fall back position is to sham animal cunning.
° And just in the nick of time it comes to me. I grab a spade and am molesting a stray viburnum as the van pulls up.
° I freshen up that vacant expression that so naturally adorns my face and let them begin.
° "Mr. McLey?"
° "O no, I live down the road a bit. Mr. McLey disappeared sometime during the winter, nobody knows where. That's why the gardens are such a shambles."
° "My goodness! Have the police--? Well the woman at the Chamber--."
° "O go ahead and ramble through, I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
° I noticed they were all staring at the uprooted plant.
° "O this? I'm just digging up a few plants I know he would've wanted me to have. Before somebody else gets to them."
° They moved on down the path right fast.
° And as they went googoo over the spicy scent of the burkwoodii viburnum hedge, the complementaryscented Actaea, the Orchard and its mixed daffodils, the redbud alley, then disappeared behind the evergreens, I hightailed it into the house and lowered the roman shades.
° That was a close one.

° Lilywhitehanded, Giac.

Asia (Foto)

Oggi il 22 febbraio mmvii alle 15:45 morì Asia, diciannovenne.

° This morning I said rosary for her, but when I brought in the cat carrier, she dragged herself away from it. So I cancelled the appointment.
° At 14:30 she moved a few feet, and began to cry. So that was that. By then she didn't object to the trip to town.
° Back home at 16:30 I lit candles before la Guadalupe, and bathed Asia, as Muslim women would not be too good to do. I thought it would be creepy. But no, it just seemed respectful and loving.
° The grave--deep and round, for Asia was a creature in perfect balance--I had dug 10 days ago. I filled the bottom with pine straw, as being softer than wheat straw. I placed Asia, enclosed in a damask shroud (in a colour called 'Asia,' I use it for bookbinding), facing East, as she used to bask in the South window. Water and food dishes, a can of tuna. Fragrant winter honeysuckle, cheerful winter jasmine, a twig of heavily berried chinese holly, a bouquet of daffodils. More pine straw, interment.
° The Sun was almost set before I finished reading the Missa pro defunctis in die depositionis and chanting Dies Irae (though the bits about sin were inapplicable).
° I had not made a complete spectacle of myself in the veterinary. I was composed as could be during the burial.
° But when I reentered the house and realised that she wasn't there . . . .
° And then later, as I was removing soiled rugs and blankets and bedspreads--there under two thicknesses of carpet remnant was a large pool of dried cream. The one big meal I'd gotten into her by means of the medicine dropper, she'd thrown up and it had soaked clear through.
° So the futility finished me off.

° Why did my neighbour name her Asia? Because she had on one side the map of Arabia, India, and Indochina in jet black on snow white.

° I don't remember how to wake up without Asia perching on my chest and sucking my breath till I rouse.

° Giac.

Babel (Piers)

Dear Piers,
° Did you get it?
° The snow of your childhood dreams?
° We did. Drifts of 1.5 inches in the sheltered Winter Garden. China and Bandit were aghast, Sugar began to bat it about the minute he set foot in it.
° And it cohered! I wouldn’t even have tried it.
° So I made a 3 roll snowman in front of the South wall. Only, he sort of leaned back against the stones. But that was fine, because his face looked more like the backside of an ewok’s hooded head anyway, so I say it’s It, counting to 100 for a game of hideandseek.
° Then Sugar and I went to the Croquet Lawn and played Juggernaut. That is, I rolled a couple of dozen 2foot diameter millstones, and he threw himself in front as a perpetual sacrifice. Though sometimes he just tried to grind meal off his shoulders by leaning into the sides.
° I was going to make Castel Sant' Angelo. Then, bimeby, I decided to make the Tomb of Cecilia Metella. Then, bimeby, sweaty and buttsore, I decided to call it an igloo.
° Well it's not quite up to the standard of Nanook of the North, but there's plenty of room for Sugar inside. And I reckon he can dig out when the whole jerrybuilt mess collapses.
° (Is "jerrybuilt" a racist term nowadays? If so, Thesaurus suggests "slapdash" or "cheap and nasty." I lean toward slapdash.)

° Frozen arctic vegetariansealblubberchewing love, Giac.

50 Cent Piece (Piers)

Dear Piers,

° I had just left the Live at the Met transmission of Tan Dun's The First Emperor--I was whistling the only musical bit I could recollect, "Will our sufferings have no end?" Couldn't help but compare how many musical remembrancers I took home with me from I Puritani the preceding weekend. Still, an aural spectacle, the stone drummers alone were worth the price of admission. And to see the Met Orchestra chanting! Where was the Musicians' Union? Of course, Gone with the Wind. And though I felt right bad for the Chinese conscripts longing for death, I couldn't help but notice that their longing could've been selffulfilled, had they really been as miserable as they claimed--I'd left the Colliverdi Cinema and here walks up to me a very handsome, wellgroomed, welldressed, very nearly natural blond, and he says, says he:

"Can you help me? I'm short 50 cents for the bus to downtown?"

I, of course, still thinking of the Chinese taxed half to death, and having just seen a lame man to remind me of Francesco, replied:

"I'm sorry."

And walked on into the mall.

§

° I was sorry to be heartless.

° But it was the victim's fault.

° He asked for too little, and he didn't look the least bit pitiful. He didn't fit my parameters for almsgiving.

° But it does nag me.

° I mean, that I didn't find out what he was fixing to do when he got downtown.

° Ever tenderhearted, Giac.