At that point, we both heard the gentle shhs from people nearby, so I gestured to her to stop talking. Helene is one of my favorite executives in the entire European publishing industry and  besides her charm and beauty, she shares with me the passion for sailboats, the unplanned meandering along the European canal systems and a the predilection for light musical comedy.

Some moments later, as we were sitting side by side at Lipps, I said:

“Now, sweet temptation of the entire Boulevard Raspail, tell me a story!”

French women have a special way to hold a champagne flute that can cause serious disruption of mental processes on the part of whoever is lucky to be sitting in front of them. It is not a particular pose, or coquettish demeanor but a simple but alluring intention that carries a world of mystery and excitement. Helene claims that it is due to the fact that the man in front is usually two or three sips ahead of the lady. Well, I had to make an effort to remind her about the story. This the way she put it:

          “It is a silly story, really. But is has a bit of nonsense that is quite French. I am sure your readers would enjoy a bit of humor. You see, thieves in Paris have a special skill when it comes to quick ventures. Normally, a thief can open a car and remove whatever is worth removing in a few seconds. Museum thieves however are hard to find. Security is such at the Parisian museums that it takes a clever thief to be able to bypass alarms and controls, neutralize video cameras and then  remove whatever he wishes to steal. It is probably easier to rob a jewelry store or a bank than a French Museum.”

          The introduction sounded good and I said so. She lifted the flute and took a discreet sip, while I watched her do it and kept trying to identify the nature and expression of her moves that brought that excitement into my nervous system. She continued:

“This is the story of a well educated thief who happened to be an art lover. He decided to steal some paintings from the Louvre Museum. After carefully planning the coup, he prepared a rather effective plan and at the chosen time he quickly got past security, stole the paintings he had in mind and with the same speed, carried the stolen paintings to the safety of his van. As he moved away from the Museum, he smiled pleased that the task had been completed with no major inconvenience. He was about to continue congratulating himself when the van suddenly ran out of gas and the police were all around him in no time at all. And it was only two blocks away on the Rue de Rivoli!  He could kick himself for committing such crass error.”

She saw that she had my attention, smiled and had another sip. I asked her:

“Okay, what happened next?”

Again she smiled, with a bit of a mischievous touch and continued:

“Once at the Police Station he was asked how he could mastermind and execute a crime of such magnitude, overcome  the strict security measures and then make such a stupid mistake as forgetting to fill the gas tank of the van!”

Again, she stopped, smiled and of course took another sip. Then she asked me:

“Are you ready?’

Not knowing what was coming I nodded affirmatively. She  then delivered  the final chapter of the story:

“The thief shrugged his shoulders and replied to the Comisaire: Monsieur, please try to understand my simple reasoning. You see, one of the reasons that I went through all the trouble to plan and execute this robbery is simply that I had no Monet to buy Degas in order to make the Van Gogh!”

“Mister President, are you going to spend some time at the White House before Christmas?”

Manolo, the loyal valet and potential Supreme Court Justice if a vacancy appeared, was seriously concerned about his Boss who seemed to have been everywhere except at home to deal with the many crisis that continue to develop in almost every sector of the Administration. Even Condoleezza had suffered a major transformation; from a timid butterfly who hid behind complex and uninteligible rhethoric, she had sudenly become a Defender of Freedom and Democracy and was beginning to sound like the Boss, that is, more complex and more uninteligible rhethoric.

“Yes Manolo, I have to stick around to get some of my boys out of jail and give a few medals to them and a few others. I also have to try my new approach with the opposition and the media”

“What is that, Mister President?”

“Tenderness and affection. Praise, recognition, acceptance, amenability, discourse, patience, agreeability, humor, reflection, interaction and a lot of physical reminders like embraces, hands in the arms of clients, arms around shoulders, smiles and laughter. In no time I’ll have Congress and the media clearing brush with me!”

“Great, but I must warn you, Mister President”

“About what?”

“They might believe you!”

Idiocy is a peculiar characteristic, state of mind or genetic quality that according to reliable statistics never fails to affect a part of the population of any community. It is everywhere. It is contagious. It is annoying and appears when least expected. Fortunately it is not fatal and can be, with the proper precautions, be ignored or denied. It can not be cured.

The idiot’s target this time is Christmas. Its intention exceeds the idiocy level and enters the selected circle of those affected by crass stupidity. We shall offer no additional comment on this.

The worrisome part is that this kind of protest is likely to extend to other dates and events. Next they will think up something objectionable about the New Year (our Gregorian calendar is not the only one) and we are liable to offend those who celebrate the 7,633th year of the Blue Flea calendar.

They will not miss our cherished national anthem. (Why vilify those British cannoniers making whoopee above Chesapeake Bay?). How about Martin Luther King’s Birthday? And forget about Governor Wallace’s? Or in the same trend of stupidity how about Washington’s  and  what would King George’s descendants will say?

We can go on anticipating the displays of idiocy until hell freezes over. Or better yet, and in order to avoid more idiocy to flourish when hell is mentioned, we better say “until a serious temperature drop will cause an indiscriminate slow down of molecular activity at or around minus 273 degrees Centigrade and turn a warm place of punishment into an uncomfortable slab of ice. Not that there is anything wrong with that!”