With a few Latin words, Pope Benedict XVI did what no Pope has done in almost 600 years – abdicate the Papacy!  His announcement sent shockwaves around the globe and sent the world atwitter (all puns intended) with speculation as to the reason for his sudden announcement and departure.

Most people who give notice to their employers leave to accept a better opportunity.  Although the Pope did not indicate his plans (perhaps he could not fully express them in Latin), my money is on reality television.  Recently, an anonymous source indicated to me that several cable networks had made handsome offers to his Holiness for reality TV shows.

truTV has allegedly offered the Pope a leading role in a reality program starring his Holiness and a retired Hindu master.  Dubbed Holy Cow!, the show will air on Sundays and feature lively banter between the Pontiff and his Hindu foil on subjects such as God, Eternity, Heaven, reincarnation, and the comparative popularity of sitar music versus Gregorian chants.

Not to be outdone, however, E! Network is also seeking the Pope’s services. With the demise of The Girls Next Door, E! network is seeking  new programming, and the Pope’s resignation may be just the ticket to create a reality television megahit.  Teaming Hugh Hefner with the Pontiff, The Pope Next Door will be a buddy list reality comedy enabling his Holiness to demonstrate his lighter side.  Whether worshipping the sun in Honolulu or cruising for snow bunnies in Aspen, the Pope and Hef are sure to delight their viewers.  If contract talks with Hugh Hefner stall, E! has a backup plan, employing the Pope to replace Bruce Jenner on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Of course, in all seriousness, I am certain that the Pope’s decision has the best interests of all Roman Catholics at heart and fear that it is based on some debilitating mental or physical illness.  Yet, if he wanted, he could be bigger than Honey Boo Boo!

On Saturday of Labor Day weekend, my Dad – in his mid-eighties – called me to report a problem with his computer.  This is not an unusual occurrence, as my nieces and others from whom he solicits technical assistance can attest.  He told me that there was an icon-like image of what appeared to be a bird on his computer.  (Now, you should know that his eyesight is not what it once was.)  The icon appeared – he said – on his desktop, any webpage to which he navigated, and any application that he opened.

I did a cursory search on the web and could find nothing (frankly, I had difficulty in formulating a way to describe the problem to enter into the search box).  A while later, my Dad called to say that the problem had resolved itself.  Ever inquisitive, as he was reaching for a small tape measure on the surge protector on which the monitor was seated (to determine the exact location where the image sat on his screen), he bumped the surge protector and the icon disappeared.

I still pondered the source of the image and did a couple more searches to no avail.  I thought “could it be a computer virus?” or “could this be the work of a computer hacker?”

Three days later, I got the answer.  My Dad called declaring that he had solved the problem.  He had taken an afternoon nap and, on arising, had opened the front door.  There, on the glass of his storm door, sat the very same icon he had seen on his computer monitor on Saturday!  It was (drum roll) an insect!!  Yes, a real bug!!! – not a computer virus or the nefarious act of a cyber-terrorist.

The great white hunter set out to capture the beast, but – by the time he found a jar – the “bird” had flown.  But, fortunately, he did get a picture (below).  He’s currently putting out an APB.

Go figure…

As we mark a year since Osama bin Laden was brought to justice, the following verses are apropos:

As we gather at ground zero

to honor and  respect the heroes

that gave it their all as the towers did fall

and a wrong that won’t be forgiven

As America wept our flag it waved

A salute in solemn splendor

for the land of the free

and the home of the brave

with a message “no surrender”

A Presidential pledge

 to his people he said

We’ll get them if it takes years

And years it did take

but then came a break

of the whereabouts

of the villain

Covert plans were made

for the debt must be paid

And justice demanded a killin’

Swiftly they came in the dark of night

on the wings of Black-hawks

in stealthy flight

To settle a score that was made

and a pledge that was overdue

As they swarmed the compound

with that in mind

Usama would get his due

There once was a man named Usama

that envisioned himself like Obama

he got shot in the head

and the last words he said were

“Oh shit” I’m having a trauma.

You may think the title of this post makes no sense.  But, follow along and you may be amused.

When I moved my office to its current building, I was intrigued by the security door at the top of the stairs leading to its second floor location.  During my visit to the building prior to my decision to relocate there, the landlord proudly pointed to the security door (a sliding glass door requiring coded entry after normal business hours) as a significant advantage to renting the space he was about to show me.

Less than a month after renting the office, as I was ascending the stairs, I was greeted by the sliding portion of the door swung open off of its track and the following handwritten note taped to the door:

“Do not close door.  Has to be reset.”

More than three years later, the door remains open and inoperable – not that it really matters to me.  It has, however, become a source of amusement as a running joke between me and the attorney down the hall.  Because it blocks access to the handrail for several steps, however, it has become more than just a joke as a tenant in the building actually fell down the steps a while back.  Fortunately, he was uninjured.

Last summer, the compressor for the air conditioning unit servicing this portion of the building broke down.  Some type of technician came and jury-rigged the system permitting some level of cooling in the affected part of the building.  At that time, the landlord informed those of us concerned that a new compressor had been ordered.  Eight months later, that compressor remains – to my knowledge – “on order” and has been added to the security door as a subject of amusement (although, when the weather really heats up, I doubt that we will be laughing about it).

Recently, the attorney has affixed some “Tripping Hazard” and “High Temperature” warning placards that he printed off the Internet to the door.  For my part, I taped two tongue-in-cheek notices on either side of the original handwritten notice.  I hope you enjoy them.

Human beings are an odd race.  Their clinical advancements have restored sight to the blind, replaced hearts in near-terminal cardiac patients, and cultured babies in test tubes.  Their lofty goals and scientific quests have taken them far beyond the moon, to view, map, and study distant galaxies through state-of-the-art instrumentation.  Their humanitarian souls have built houses for the homeless without compensation, and surged forth selflessly with critical resources for victims of disasters.  Despite these accomplishments, human beings have also proven themselves to be astoundingly stupid and attention-greedy.

Throughout history, however, people have always found a way to laugh at their own shortcomings.  Nothing has made this easier than technology.  For example, if you’re having a bad day or just want a good laugh, simply click buzzlol.com.  This site has cached photos of people caught engaged in strange behaviors – and proud of it!

Their page for Photoshop Fail displays evidence of people who’ve gone over the deep end to enhance their photographs in order to look fly on the Internet.  Among them is a young woman who seems to have lost her hips in a rigorous workout regimen and a not-so macho man whose muscles appear as genuine as the cartoon Popeye’s.

Buzzlol.com’s duckface photos are more evidence of plain old dumb behavior.  Why any sane person would post photos of themselves making “duck lips” escapes me.   Well, it has to be cheaper than Botox!

And then there is the page for funny autocorrect, which proves how awry text messages can go by virtue of the autocorrect spelling and context software built into iPhones.  The most hysterical example comes from the girl who used filthy language with what she assumed to be a former boyfriend.  She also asked the “ex” to identify himself among the ten *%&#* she’d dated in the past.  The answer came back, “It’s your father!”  I have to admit, this one gave me the best laugh.  I pictured the punishment the dad must have handed down to his wanton daughter, including the loss of her precious iPhone!

In the days before we’d inherited a mortgage, the hubby and I enjoyed traveling overseas.  Our first foray, buoyed on the pages of Tom Fowler’s The Magus, was to Greece.

Our arrival in the Athens airport was not auspicious; two weeks earlier, terrorists had targeted that airport.  Too late to secure a refund, we assumed that lightning would not strike twice in the same place.  But as the metal detector shrieked at us like the Sirens of mythology, we were politely pulled aside by airport security.  My husband had packed a tiny mustache scissors and these, apparently, constituted a potential threat.  In typical New York fashion, I snatched up the scissors, brandishing them angrily in the security guard’s face, demanding if he were kidding.  God rescues the idiots among us, so we were free to go, with the scissors in tow.

The lovely hotel room had a private bath that included a bidette. I stumbled upon it, and nearly into it, with all the wonder of Stanley beholding Dr. Livingston for the first time.  Clueless as to its use, I made a transatlantic call to my grandmother, who’d been born in Italy and who knew about these things.  She revealed the most basic of directions and told me I’d love that bidette.  The ensuing scene, replete with a frenzied call to the concierge, resembled the Three Stooges film when the clueless trio assumed the job of plumbers and proceeded to flood their client’s home.  My first and last time with a bidette!

After three days in Athens, we sailed the blue Aegean.  As the sun blossomed in the sky each morn, we toured various islands, including Crete, the home of the legendary Minotaur, and Santorini, the rumored resting place of the lost civilization of Atlantis.  But when we debarked from the skiff in an emerald cove to see the empty funicular upon the shores of Rhodos (“Rhodes”), my heart sank.  We were ordered to either board the funicular or take a donkey ride up the mountain … provided the donkeys didn’t decide to mate on the way up (a popular spectator sport in Greece, apparently).  Allergic to equines, not keen to watch Dominic and Doris do the horizontal, er, vertical mambo, and deathly afraid of heights, I crept into the funicular and hugged the floor.  Literally.

From that position, as the car creaked slowly up the side of the mountain, as I was certain that the cable would snap any moment, plunging us down to a horrific death, I confessed every sin I’d ever committed — and what I’d planned to do to make up for each one.  Unfortunately, I had an audience … dang pesky American tourists along for the ride! … who so enjoyed the impromptu entertainment that they begged me step up to the mic for Amateur Comics Night on board the ship that night.

Fearing the funicular on the return trip like most people fear a root canal without anesthesia, we were told that we could simply walk down to the beach!  Going, the dreaded funicular was optional!  Good thing the Greeks were unschooled in Italian curses, or I’d have set American-Greek relations back a few hundred years.

That night, we set sail for the island of Lesbos, where we were unable to debark due to extremely rough waters.  An unexpected storm tore through our path, rocking the cruise ship a helluva lot worse than any runaway train down the New York City subway tracks.  The dining room was only one-third full when we arrived, with my husband already green at the gills.  One look at the bread basket and he nearly lost it.  A minute later, he was high-tailing it back to our cabin, with a lot of other passengers, just as green, hot on his heels.

Me? I ate and loved the entire, delicious meal.  The waiter eyed me as if I’d suddenly sprouted another head upon my shoulders, sort of like a child of Zeus.  “What’s for dessert?” I quipped, wiping my lips daintily as other passengers tossed their cookies ’round the dining room … and not the kind of cookies that came on a dessert tray.  I was enjoying the pleasant swaying motion of the ship, whose deck was now positioned skyward, at a 45-degree angle.  As glasses, dinnerware, and wine bottles slid off tables, as passengers slid beneath them, I asked the waiter, “Can you please make up a tray for my husband?  He missed his dinner; I’ll take it to him.”  Again, I got that odd look; I knew not why.

I negotiated the roiling deck uphill, balancing the tray like a pro and taking perverse pleasure in the obstacle course of scattered silverware, spilled wine, and doubled-over passengers.  I should probably insert here that I excelled at gymnastics in high school, due to my petite frame and height.  As my center of gravity is lower than most humans’, I never get seasick and very much enjoy a rocking ocean when I’m sailing upon one.

It took a few tries to steady the key in the lock of our cabin, as the door shifted along with the sea.  Once successful, I proffered the sumptuous tray to my husband, who was hanging out of our berth like a parched man off a camel in the desert.  “Look what I brought you!” I chirped.  “The entire dinner!”   He barely made it to the head intact and to this day, calls me a sadist for my innocent act of kindness.   To the sound of his upchucking, I fell into a blissful sleep, rocked as if in the cradle.  I still swear that that was the best night’s sleep of my entire life!

Our last day was spent on the beautiful, laid back isle of Mykonos … which the guides had failed to warn us boasted a topless beach.  “Cool!” I breathed, untying the top of my bikini under the hot sun.  “What the hell are you doing!?!” my husband thundered.  “No one on this beach knows us,” I pointed out reasonably.  “If I’m ever going to go topless, now’s the time.”  He gave me so much grief that I abandoned the idea, even as the eyes roll around in his head like errant pinballs at the sight of all the nubile, unbounded flesh.  “I’m sorry, I’m oblivious, I swear, I won’t look any more!” he promised.  But when we patronized a small food stand on the beach, the words that rolled off his tongue like butter were, “I’ll take two burgers, two Cokes, and two tits!”  In revenge, I managed to go topless for not quite 60 seconds before he tossed his towel over me like Sir Walter Raleigh throwing his cape over a noxious puddle.

En route back home, we got stopped again in the Athens airport.  This time, it was my box of Borghese® eye shadows that set off the alarms.  The very same guard eyed me with deep trepidation, easing the cover off the makeup case as he would the top of Pandora’s Box.   Nothing inimical in there but twenty gorgeous shades of sparking eye shadow (hey, this was the late ’80′s!). “I don’t understand,” he admitted in his thick accent.  “Me either,” I shrugged, and then, it dawned on us both.  The metals in the eye makeup had set off the alarms; they’d been overlooked the first time, in light of the tiny moustache scissors!  “Lady,” the guard muttered, closing the box with a shudder and handing it back to me, “You’re dangerous!”

“You don’t know the half of it,” my husband muttered under his breath. 

Veterinarians state that cats possess IQs similar to that of a human six-year-old child.  But vets lie.  From long association with two Applehead Siamese kitties, I can tell you that a human’s IQ, at any age, is miniscule compared to that of domestic felines.  I’d learned this before the second Christmas that Gremlin — named for the little imp in the old Bugs Bunny cartoon and not the tiny monsters in the popular film — graced my home with her presence.

Two weeks after Gremlin’s first birthday, Christmas Eve arrived.  In Italian-American tradition, I cooked the “feast of the seven fishes” as my family attended church and toured the neighborhood to enjoy the lights.  The mouthwatering scent of seafood-laden tomato sauce wafted through my house, where Gremlin and I were the sole creatures stirring.  Suddenly, a very distinct and unfamiliar male voice spoke clearly into my head.  In no uncertain terms, it urged, “Check the cat!”

I hadn’t imagined that voice; I wasn’t crazy.  And I couldn’t ignore the insistent voice or its implicit warning — for neither my husband nor I had ever called Gremlin by the plebeian term, “the cat.”  Clearly, this was something external.  I tossed down my ladle and the unseen Christmas angel who’d just spoken into my head led me one flight up.  Beneath my beautiful Christmas tree, on the open split-level overlooking the dining room, was Gremlin — curled beneath the tree, with a golden light bulb from the lowest branch clenched delicately in her tiny jaws.  The tree was lit!  One little crunch from those jaws and she’d be toast, literally, or prey to a horrible death by broken glass!  Terrified, I unplugged the tree at once and wove the lowest-hanging strand of lights out of her reach.

My husband, who always reverts to childhood at Christmas, wasn’t thrilled with the darkened tree.  Rob him of any single glitzy, commercial symbol of Christmas and he morphs into Scrooge.  He vowed that we would outsmart Gremlin the following Christmas, so that we could have a tree with “all that glittered.”

True to his word, the following year, as Gremlin dozed peacefully upstairs, my husband put his finger to his lips and drew two half-circles of fabric from a shopping bag.  Quilted and printed with sprigs of holly, these were no ordinary tree skirts — or half skirts.  Hidden within the quilting was an electric wire attached to a remote control device.  The dial on the control was clearly marked, “Kitten, medium-sized cat, large cat.”  “What the hell is this?!?” I demanded with a sick feeling in my stomach.

“You put the half-circles together under the tree to form a full circle,” said my husband, sotto voce.  “There’ll be a bit of carpeting exposed, in the area that the skirts won’t cover — right around the tree stand, just like a regular tree skirt.  But that’s okay; there’s no way that Gremlin is going to step into that zone after she hot-foots it on the skirts.  It’s a very, very low-level electrical jolt.”

“No!!!!!”

“It trains her not to get close to the tree and keeps her safe.”

“She’s not one of Pavlov’s dogs,” I reminded him with narrowed eyes.  “She’s a Siamese cat, the Albert Einstein of all domestic felines.  She won’t take orders. And I’ll be damned if you electrocute her, even mildly!”

“Look,” he said testily. “I’m the father figure here.  I’m going to train her!  I want the tree and all the trimmings.  We want to keep Gremlin safe.  This is the best way to accomplish both.”

“She sees you put those things under the tree, she’ll figure it all out,” I warned.

“I thought of that,” he grinned evilly.  “You stay behind closed doors with her while I do all the work.  I’ll put up the tree, trim it, and install the tree skirts.  The nosy little thing won’t see me working; she won’t be forewarned. And she’ll train easily; you’ll see.”

‘though something told me Gremlin would get the best of my husband, I agreed to his madness.  It gave me, you see, more than three hours of peace, an unprecedented respite during the insanity of the holiday.  Three hours in which I read, napped, and stroked Gremlin, who sat beside me as my husband connived in secret, behind a closed door, to dupe her. “Let her loose!” he finally bellowed up from the split-level, like a lion tamer ordering his assistant to let the lionesses into the circus arena.

Sprung, Gremlin ran immediately to the top of the stairs and peered down, spying a winter kitty carnival.  There was an enticing Christmas tree, a forest of bright baubles ripe for swatting around and all-aglow with enticing lights.  She also eyed the half skirts, awaiting her like an executioner ready to throw the switch.  On soft paws, she padded to the bottom of the stairs and then, in one fell swoop, leapt gracefully through the air to land squarely and unerringly in the small circle of carpeting uncovered by the electric skirts.

For an animal of her size, her balletic jette was equal to a human jumping the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool without ever touching water.  Not a paw, not a whisker, not a silken hair of Gremlin’s had brushed the electrified fabric.  That small patch of carpet was, to her, what an American Embassy would be to a U.S. citizen in a pickle overseas.  And the look in Gremlin’s sapphire blue eyes clearly telegraphed to my husband, “Pathetic human! Mine is the superior intellect!”

I laughed myself silly.  Gremlin remained inscrutable in her safe haven, licking her paws in studied nonchalance and every once in a while, glancing at my husband from slit, knowing eyes.  Understanding when to concede defeat, he unplugged the tree and proceeded to dismantle it, lights, faux pine boughs, and ornaments.  Never again has a Christmas tree graced our home.  Gremlin trained my husband very, very well!

Other Christmas Articles:

White Christmas

A Practical, Magical Christmas

My Christmas List

The Star in the Window

The Origin of Saint Nicholas

The Empty Stocking

The Most Meaningful Gift

Christmas Eve in Italy (Vigilia di Natale in Italia)

A Christmas Tree Grows in Brooklyn

The Hope Still Lives

The 25th of December

Merry Mithras

An Old Fashioned Christmas

Surviving the Holidays: 24 Useful Tips

La Famiglia

How often have you heard and dismissed the phrase “time is money” as an old cliché?  But, if you really give it thought, it makes a lot of sense.  If you hire a person to, for example, rake and weed your lawn, the cost includes that person’s labor as well as the supplies that he needs.  If you order a meal in a restaurant, the cost covers not only the food but also the time that it took to prepare that meal.  Labor translates to time or man-hours worked.  Understanding that, let’s take a look at the average paycheck.

After a week of work, an hourly employee receives a check for hours that he or she put in on the job.  A salaried employee is paid for his or her time as well, but the actually hourly compensation may vary from pay period to pay period.  A closer look at that paycheck reveals that the gross sum is larger than the net (take-home pay).  The difference between the two figures represent governmental deductions:

1.       Federal tax

2        State tax

3.       Local tax

4.       Union Dues (if applicable)

Add up all the deductions and divide the total by the hourly rate of pay.  The resulting figure illustrates how many hours were worked to pay those deductions.  For example:

$10.00/hour x 40 hours = $400

Total Deductions = $80

400 divided by 80 is 5.

That makes 5 hours worked by an employee just to satisfy Uncle Sam.

And now we get down to the nitty-gritty of a union worker’s check.  Let’s say that you are a union laborer, working a three-day holiday weekend (i.e., Memorial Day).  You might receive:

1.       Time and a half for Saturday (equating to 12 hours of pay)

2.       Double time for Sunday (equating to 16 hours of pay)

3.       Double time and a half for Monday (the actual holiday, equating to 20 hours of pay).

Total up those hours and you’ll see that you would have been paid for 48 hours worked. In addition to your 40 regular hours worked the rest of the week, you’d have racked up grand total of 88 hours in the shop for which you are to be paid.  At $10.00 an hour, your gross pay would have been $880 for that week.

As you review your big fat paycheck, reality slaps you upside the head.  Your gross pay did increase, but it increased along with your deductions, the latter of which are based upon percentages.  When $80 was deducted from $400, as shown above, it accounted for 20% of the paycheck.  But 20% of $880 is $176.00.  At $10.00 an hour, that turns out to be 17.6 hours worked solely to pay those taxes.

As they say in Denmark, “Aw shucks!”  Your wife and kids were ticked off because you weren’t there to barbeque or picnic or go to the beach with them on the long holiday weekend.  And you were ticked because you got shortchanged, literally.  But, the good ol’ boys in government had a blast with your hard-earned money and never missed a beat enjoying the fruits of your blood, sweat, and tears!

You were screwed by percentages and not just as you perused that dwindled paycheck.  By April 15th of the following year, you will have spent many hours trying to recover your wages from the IRS (Internal Revenue Service), or as I like to think of this agency, The Income Removal Service.

To add insult to injury, think about this.  If you did not work that holiday weekend, you would have had three days off to relax with your family and enjoy life, instead of being tied to your job.  And, the extra money that you did not remit to the government would have been time well spent! 

As the famous rhyme goes, “In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.”  Indeed he did, ‘though the rhyme doesn’t mention the little fact that Columbus was waaaaaaaaaaay off course.  Intending to discover a shorter trade route to India, for its prized spices and silks, he pitched his scheme to the Queen of Spain.  Immediately, pesos danced before Her Majesty’s eyes.  Columbus’ eyes, too, for the Queen promptly bankrolled the intrepid explorer’s expedition.  She even outfitted him with three fine sailing vessels, which he christened in honor of his two ex-girlfriends and a long-suffering saint who put the bug in Queen Isabella’s ear: the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.

While Columbus made off with the loot and the ships, he was duped by the dude who sold him his compass; his fleet wound up navigating the wrong part of the globe.  Thus did Columbus stumble upon a new continent. And that’s when all the trouble started.  A sly fox, he knew how to turn lemons into lemonade.  He figured he could placate the Queen by hauling Chicago back to her.  But, all was not so hunky dory.

In later years, everyone and his brother sought to lay claim to being the first to step foot upon the once beautiful, once unsullied North America.  The Irish claim that one of their own was the first to land here, striking out in a tiny boat that only Divine Intervention could have seen safely upon the fierce Atlantic.  Then again, perhaps the Irishman had been fortified by a wee nip, or more than a wee.

Meanwhile, Nordic people claim evidence of Vikings having landing in the region long before Columbus.  Since Columbus is now vilified in politically correct circles for setting the stage to bilk the Native Americans of their land, I’m surprised that anyone wants to claim having landed here first!

For argument’s sake, let’s say it was those bloodthirsty Vikings.  If Leif Erikson were credited with discovering America, would our land today be known as Erikstadt, Eriksylvania, or Eriksland?  Would the natives have been called Rodemenneskers?  Can you imagine John Wayne’s impassioned, “Rodemennesker!” instead of “Comanche!”?

And would General Gorge Custer’s last words at the Battle of Little Bighorn have been, “Where are all these Rodemenneskers coming from?”  In the time it took him to utter, “Rodemenneskers,” he and his men would have died all the faster.  Maybe this is why we celebrate Columbus in America, and not Leif Erikson.

But, the arguments as to who got here first continue, as do those surrounding Columbus’ true nationality.  I was present in a local tavern when a barroom brawl erupted as to whether the explorer was Portuguese, Spanish, or Italian.  As the argument escalated, more customers got involved, gesticulating wildly, hurling slurs, and making threats.  Patty the bartender could not believe his eyes or ears as he watched good friends and neighbors descend into hostility.  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good fight; he feared for the safety of his establishment.  All those bottles behind the bar did not come cheap!

Taking the bull by the horns and pounding his fist vehemently on the bar, Patty got the crowd’s attention, thundering in his Irish brogue,  “Dis has gone too far, ya jaloons! We need a referee for the lot o’ ya eejits; somebody’s gotta make da final decision as to dis bleedin’ argument, and dat somebody is me!“

And with that, he gave us all a round of drinks on the house.  After the cheering had died down, Patty said, “I’ll settle the question of Columbus’ nationality, I will.  He was a PortuGreaser.  And while we’re on da topic, everyone knows it was dat Irishman in dat wee little boat dat discovered America.  God bless America and God bless dat wee little nip that saw ‘im across da ragin’ sea!”

Now, I would like to toast Christopher Columbus, no matter what he was or where he is.  Join me, please, in raising your glasses to that geographically clueless SOB, Christoforo Columbus.

In light of the current climate of our nation — a total lack of humor with respect to ethnicity — I apologize to any who may have been offended by this article. It wasn’t my intent to offend, but rather, to make you laugh.  Besides.  We all know that Columbus was Italian! 

Related Articles:

The Curious Case of Christopher Columbus: A Study in Historical Revisionism

Christopher Columbus On Trial

As Moammar Khadafy (alternately spelled Gadhafi or Gaddafi) exits the world stage, fashionistas everywhere are no doubt mourning his loss.  Known for his cutting edge use of color, bling, and especially hats as fashion accessories, Khadafy was always outfitted to make a statement (although, the exact meaning of that statement was not always readily apparent).

Mo, as his friends call him, likes to don his military dress uniform for special occasions.

And, he is always surrounded by his crack staff of colorful, impeccably dressed bodyguards.  Hugh Hefner has nothing on Mo.

 During state visits, Mo frequently wears his royal garb, using gold accents and green earth tones to give him a peaceful, yet noble appearance.

For everyday governing, Moammar favors attire in the red, blue, purple family of colors – often combining colors to make bold fashion statements.

At home, Mo often wears basic black.

But, don’t confuse him with Bob Dylan, for whom he is frequently mistaken.

Yet, Mo will be best remembered for his signature use of tans and browns that so beautifully complemented his swarthy, rugged skin tone and texture.

So, as we bid a fond farewell to Mo, we also remember that he is a man for all fashion seasons.