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Thinking that there should be more to my life than watching reruns of “Scrubs”, my wife coaxed me into attending a community art festival.  In fact, we knew several of the artists, one of whom has a wonderful talent as a caricaturist.  Yes, she sketched me.  I was disappointed that she did not detect my resemblance to Jude Law.  The artist also ignored my suggestions of portraying me with epaulets and on horseback; where is Jean-Louis David when you need him?

No, the caricature reveals a man of a sly and wry character, someone whom you would want to cast as Fagin in your next summer stock production of “Oliver.”  Remember that the musical transformed Fagin into an endearing rogue, not the grotesque villain whom Dickens described.

Perhaps I am mindful of my physical proximity to Fagin (the result of 4000 years of inbreeding) because I just saw Roman Polanski’s film of “Oliver Twist.”  Polanski adheres to the Dickensian perspective and even augments the bleakness.  If we don’t see Queen Victoria beat starving orphans, it probably was a last-minute deletion in editing.  Polanski’s vision is a damning sociological study of 19th century England.  Amidst the horrors of the workhouses and the urban squalor, there are no choreographed frolics or charming ballads.  This sure ain’t the musical, but it is not quite Dickens either. 

Dickens detested society’s hypocrisy, callousness and injustice, but he did like people and he relished their foibles.  He was quite the caricaturist himself.  Dickens’ main characters, being afflicted with normality, are usually his least interesting.  What can we say about Oliver Twist except that he is a nice boy with miserable luck?  (In fact, of Dickens’ main characters only Ebenezer Scrooge and Sydney Carton are genuinely interesting; evidently, there are advantages to being a miserable curmudgeon or an alcoholic wastrel.)

But Dicken’s secondary characters are wonderful: impossible, ridiculous and often endearing for their absurdity.  They are the ones we remember.  Think of the Artful Dodger, the urchin-thief aspiring to be a gentleman.  Perhaps, after his deportation to an unspecified but obvious territory the Dodger might have become the Lord Mayor of Sydney.  (He certainly had the credentials for politics.)  Think of Noah Claypool–the preening apprentice mortician, the Casanova of scullery maids  and the overreaching bully who gets beaten up by the much smaller Oliver.  And think of Mr. Bumble, the pompous, petty-larcenous bureaucrat, and most martyred of henpecked husbands.  When confronted with his crimes, he defends his own failings with a memorable explanation:  “the law is a bachelor.” 

Unfortunately, Polanski has removed all the fun from “Oliver Twist.”  It’s all “dark, satanic mills.”  A much better–truer–version is David Lean’s film, which appears on TCM about once a month. 

But I might have wished Alec Guinness’ prosthetic nose to have been slightly smaller than Mount Sinai.  Even my Fagin look is more flattering than that. 

On this day in A.D. 73, the Romans knocked on (in) the door of Masada and found that no one was home–anymore. My ancestor Yuyeniel Phinnermah had been the morale officer at the garrison but was courtmartialed after ordering out for pizza.

In theatrical parlance, Masada really was a show-stopper. Of course, the entire Jewish War had proved to be suicidal. With Jerusalem destroyed and a third of the Judean population dead, one could conclude “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s–or else!”

What had incited this disasterous war? Well, Nero was gross and odious. (At least, Caligula was dapper.) Our leading intellectuals of the time–the Neo-Sadducees–assured us that the Empire would be completely understanding if we chose to secede from Rome. The Neo-Sadds did not venture from their luxury suites in Alexandria to join us on the battlements of Jerusalem (they felt that they were a little too old to dodge catapults) but they guaranteed us the sympathy and support of the Parthians, the Chinese and even the Mayans.

How could we lose?

Well, we did. And the Neo-Sadds denounced us for fighting the war so badly. If only we had listened to them….

 In celebration of Larry King’s 800th anniversary in show business, CNN will attempt to compile an hour’s worth of coherent sentences. 

For example, who can forget his insightful questions when he moderated the Lincoln-Douglas debates.  Apparently, neither candidate could satisfactorily explain “Why does pastrami cost more than corned beef?” 

Yet, my all-time favorite was Larry’s interview with Donald Rumsfeld.
Larry King: You know that Rumsfeld sounds Jewish.

Rumsfeld: Please, I’m from Kenilworth.

Larry: Well, you know that Madeleine Albright didn’t realize that she was Jewish.

Rumsfeld: How did she avoid looking in mirrors? Couldn’t we talk about the Middle East?

Larry: Sure. Did you ever see “King Richard and the Crusaders“? Why doesn’t Hollywood nowadays have actresses like Virginia Mayo?

Rumsfeld: Well, she was a Republican….

Larry: You know, Mayo sounds Italian but it’s Irish.  On the other hand, Robert Stack really was Italian but he didn’t look it.

Rumsfeld: About the Middle East…

Larry: Did you ever see “Omar Khayyam“?

Rumsfeld: Yes, and this administration is fighting Michael Rennie’s terrorist organization to ensure that Raymond Massey, Cornel Wilde and Debra Paget can live in a free and democratic Iraq.

Larry: Cornel Wilde was Jewish, too.

On this day in 1865, Abraham Lincoln had a really bad time at the theater.  Of course, many of us have sat through plays, wishing that John Wilkes Booth would put us out of our misery.  Let me recall some of my traumas….

I once worked in Springfield, Illinois.  (There’s a Lincoln coincidence.)  Our state capital has the charm of a big city and the culture of a small town.  One of the aesthetic highlights of the town is wait outside the Statehouse Inn and see the state representatives stagger out and throw-up.  In addition to the unintended farce, Springfield also attempted–or perpetrated–community theater.  While I was there, the repertoire offered “The Lion in Winter.”  It was an unique experience to hear 12th century Plantagenets speak with southern Illinois accents: El-LEAN-or of Actquitting.  I only wished that the cast considered ‘act-quitting.

However, professional productions can be just as dreadful.  Chicago’s generally esteemed Goodman Theater did an updated production of “Richard II.”  The cast wore business suits instead of doublets.  Unfortunately, the Brooks Brothers’ wardrobe does not include gauntlets, so how would feuding nobles challenge one another?  In this production, they slapped each other with legal briefs.  I was actually disappointed that the deposed Richard II was not pinched to death with cell phones.

Now, I would never be so callous as to include school plays in this list of horrors.  No one expects them to be good (although perhaps the seven-year-old Meryl Streep was a remarkable exception–doing “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” when the rest of her class was performing “Peter Rabbit”).  They are just the unavoidable consequence of having relatives.

However, you may also have to endure plays by friends and acquaintances.  I have known several aspiring playwrights.  One colleague from work was impressively prolific without the least talent to justify it.  She wrote a sex comedy without humor, titillation or anything else that be remotely interesting.  Another acquaintance felt obliged to dramatize his wife’s nervous breakdown.  If boredom is a treatment for psychosis, she now must be cured.

I have since received further invitations to even more plays by my prolific and talentless acquaintances.  For one reason, I am always unable to attend.  You see I am not Catholic.  So going to dreadful plays would not count for time-off in Purgatory.   

What happens when you combine a Greek and a Jew?  Aside from 241 lawyer jokes, you also get the national flag of Great Britain.

Until April 12, 1606, the flag of England was ostensibly the “cross of St. George”, two straight red lines transecting on a white background. St. George was the patron saint of England, although you can hardly imagine a cosmopolitan 4th century Greek bishop visiting the backwoods of Britannia.

Until April 12, 1606, the flag of Scotland was ostensibly “the cross of St. Andrew”, two white diagonal lines intersecting on a blue background. St. Andrew was the patron saint of Scotland, although you could be certain that a 1st century Jewish fisherman never heard of Caledonia.

On April 12, 1606, however, the two flags were combined because both country were ruled by James, England’s first and Scotland’s sixth. King James was somewhat brighter than the average Stuart and considerably shorter, but he had the full extent of Scottish parsimony. (Being cheap did spare him a conflict over money with Parliament; his son should have been so stingy.) He probably thought that combining the two flags would save on fabric.

The flag soon was named the Union Jack, an allusion to the fact that the Latin form of James is Jacobus, alias Jack. Initially, the Union Jack was the monarch’s personal banner. England and Scotland continued to fly their respective “crosses.” But in 1707, someone kept Queen Anne sober enough to sign the Act of Union, combining Scotland and England into one country and under one flag.

In 1801, the Union Jack’s appearance was “freshened” and updated with the addition of a red sash of intersecting diagonal lines: “the cross of St. Patrick”.  Patrick was the patron saint of Ireland and, in an unprecedented coincidence, he really had been there.  You can just imagine just how thrilled the Irish were to be be represented on the Union Jack.

Wales, however, is excluded from the Union Jack. Its “cross of St. David” is two straight yellow lines transecting on a black background. Wales might have stayed independent if its soldiers had clashed as ferociously as its color scheme.

“Jonathan Rhys-Meyers has defended his casting as famously overweight English monarch King Henry VIII, insisting US audiences don’t want to watch an obese royal. The Irish heartthrob is playing the 16th century tyrant – who married six times – in Showtime TV series Tudors which shows a sexed-up side to Tudor England.

Rhys-Meyers says, ‘You’re trying to sell a historical period drama to a country like America, you don’t want a big, fat, 250 pounds, red haired guy with a beard. It doesn’t let people embrace the fantastic monarch he was, because they’re not attracted to the package. Heroes do not look like Henry VIII. That is just the world we live in.'”

As long as the show is being tailored to American tastes, I would have preferred these “packages.”

Short but nebbishly cute, sexually eager if inept, Harry Tudor Jr., wants to be a Renaissance man. Ben Stiller plays the King; Owen Wilson co-stars as Thomas More.

–or

Who can save England from its enemies? Only the supreme martial artist: Chen Ree Dai Ai. Jackie Chan plays the Ninja King. Owen Wilson co-stars as Thomas More.

Thirty-two years ago, when I had an excuse to be juvenile, I was a Eurrail pass vagabond touring Europe. My love of ancient history and my rail pass took me to Greece, where I found myself the brunt of modern history.

A year earlier, the ruling Junta, the so-called Colonels, had sponsored a coup in Cyprus that would have joined the island to Greece. The attempt succeeded only in prompting a Turkish invasion of the island. The Turkish victory, alias the Greek defeat, so compromised the Junta that it fell. Democracy was restored in its birthplace.

Did the Greeks seem pleased to live again in a democracy? Perhaps among themselves, but when speaking to me I only heard how the war in Cyprus was all the fault of Henry Kissinger, the CIA and America. I certainly could not understand their logic but at least I could appreciate their need for a scapegoat. No one likes to lose. The war had to be America’s fault. Of course, they were not prepared to give America any credit for the war’s consequence: the fall of the Colonels and the restoration of democracy. No, the Greeks took credit for that.

Fortunately, I was only a sounding board, not a whipping boy. (I can personally attest that Greek Anti-Americans are less dangerous than British soccer fans.)

Although my Eurrail pass did not extend to Turkish railroads, I wanted to see Constantinople and the rail fare there was inexpensive. In my encounters with English-speaking Turks, I heard a familar litany. The war in Cyprus was all the fault of Henry Kissinger, the CIA and America. Now that seemed unfair! The Turks had won the war; they did not need a scapegoat.

I did feel obliged to mention that the Turks and the Greeks had been slaughtering each other since the 11th century, and there is no tangible evidence that the CIA–presumably the Cherokee Intelligence Agency at that time–was involved in the Crusades or the fall of Constantinople. Fortunately, the Turks have never acknowledged the Armenian massacres; otherwise we would be blamed for that, too.

Watching the HBO series “Rome” and “The Sopranos” makes me wonder, when did the Italians stop sounding like the Royal Shakespeare Company and starting sounding like Chico Marx? Consider the ethnic probability: wouldn’t Cicero have seemed more like James Gandolfini than Jeremy Irons?

Ironically, the forebears of the Sopranii at the time of Julius Caesar actually would have thought of themselves as Greeks (if I may use the Latin misnomer for the Hellenes). Sicily and Southern Italy were part of the Hellenistic world. Naples originally was Neopolis, and Athens lost the Peloponnesian War because of its disastrous campaign in Sicily.

This Hellenic identification continued in the Middle Ages. The Byzantines held Sicily until the Arabs invaded in 827; and the Greeks and Sicilians put up such a tenacious resistance that the Moslem conquest of the island took more than a century. Indeed, the Moslems were too exhausted to effectively threaten the Italian mainland.

Southern Italy remained Byzantine until the 11th century, when a less heralded but equally profitable Norman invasion conquered the region. Even then, the Byzantines maintained their covert ties to the Sicilians and Southern Italians. In the 13th century, Constantinople could no longer reconquer its lost lands but it could help determine who would rule them. A French dynasty in Southern Italy seemed more hostile than its Aragonese rival. Demonstrating a genius for conspiracy that our CIA would envy, in 1282 the Byzantines helped organize an uprising against the French that we know as “The Sicilian Vespers.” The French were driven out, and the Aragonese moved in.

If I recall, as late as the 18th century, in isolated areas of Southern Italy the populace spoke a dialect of Greek. So Southern Italy and Sicily could be regarded as Western Greece. However, my Greek friends do seem to be good losers about Palermo and Naples. (Constantinople is another matter!)

On this day in 1795, France adopted the meter as the standard unit of length. Revolutionary France obviously needed a new system of measurement; it had just cut off the tops of its old rulers.

Napoleon, however, was not that crazy about the Metric system. Perhaps under the old system, he seemed taller. While his conquering armies acted like liberals on steroids, and abolished serfdom, the Inquisition and the other medieval relics that still enslaved Europe, they did not attempt to impose the metric system. There were limits to Napoleon’s audacity.

Yet, where liberty, equality and fraternity have yet to take hold, the Metric system has. Of the allegedly advanced countries of the world, only the United States adheres to a medieval system of weights and measures. The length of the yard was said to be determined by Henry I of England; it was the distance from his nose to his outstretched end of his arm. Since Henry sired 21 children (only two with his wife) you can just imagine what other appendage he might have set as a standard of measurement.

Perhaps we should be grateful that 12 inches is called a foot.

PARIS Apr 4, 2007 (AP)– A rib bone supposedly found at the site where French heroine Joan of Arc was burned at the stake is actually that of an Egyptian mummy, according to researchers who used high-tech science to expose the fake.

The bone, a piece of cloth and a cat femur were said to have been recovered after the 19-year-old was burned in 1431 in the town of Rouen. In 1909 the year Joan of Arc was beatified scientists declared it “highly probable” that the relics were hers.

So, now we know that Joan of Arc had previous incarnations as an Egyptian and a cat.  Whether out of sentimentality or for recycling, she kept bones of her past lives in her skeleton.  Now, we just have to wonder who she is today: a combination of Nefertiti, Cat Woman and Joan of Arc….Senator Clinton?