recipes in The Guardian are always too hard

Air Force One comin' in through the gate
Johnson sworn in at 2:38

Let me know when you decide to throw in the towel
It is what it is, and it's murder most foul

~ Bob Dylan






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---------------------------- [excerpt from Apropos of Nothing, by Woody Allen] ----------------- As a young boy my favorite films were what I've dubbed champagne comedies.  I loved stories that took place in penthouses where the elevator opened into the apartment and corks popped, where suave men who spoke witty dialogue romanced beautiful women who lounged around the house in what someone now might wear to a wedding at Buckingham Palace.




     These apartments were big, usually duplexes, with much white space.  Upon entering, one or one's guest almost always headed directly to a small, accessible bar to pour decantered drinks.  Everybody drank all the time and nobody vomited.  

And nobody had cancer and the penthouse didn't leak and when the phone rang in the middle of the night, the people high above Park or Fifth Avenue didn't have to, like my folks, drag ass out of bed and bang their knees in the dark groping for the one black instrument and hear maybe a relative just dropped dead.  


No.  

Hepburn or Tracy or Cary Grant or Myrna Loy would just reach for a phone on their night table inches from where they slept, and the phone was usually white and the news did not revolve around the metastasizing of cells or a coronary thrombosis from years of deadly brisket, but more likely solvable conundrums like "What?  What do you mean we're not legally married!?"

-30-