The following must be read in a Brian Williams voice:
To our viewers in the Outer Limits of our known universe. A birthday party in this marble is a countdown to a funeral.
Salomé turned 4 years of age and like many–many–many—many « chirrin’ » around this big stage that Talkin’ Head Monkees sometimes call The Globe, Salomé’s « parental units » seemed to have planned a birthday party, for her.
Something, however, seemed to have spoiled the celebration.
Her cake was last spotted on top of a Parisian pedestal and a City of Lights lamp-post, just as the staff of this most inconsequential blog was making it’s way through a sea of ROMA still frames, —on their way to the forum.
We here at Rockefeller Plaza hope that little Salomé’s fortune cookie wasn’t printed with the same batch of ink that a Guatemalan girl got on the way to an Evergreen hospital in « Dat Dere » “West Texas Town of El Paso”.
In New York it’s the elleventh hour, and coming up, is the story of an eleven yeay–old girl, as told by a young Arab league… or something like that, at first sight, the spectacle looks like an episode of what Sarah Silverman would look like in a French BD. And no, silly, it’s not parallel to any Young Turk’s universe, para nada.