The story of the butterfly:
      "I was in Bogota and waiting for a lady friend. I was in love,
     a long time ago. I waited three days. I was hungry but could not go
     out for food, lest she come and I not be there to greet her. Then, on
     the third day, I heard a knock."
      "I hurried along the old passage and there, in the sunlight,
     there was nothing."
      "Just," Vance Joy said, "a butterfly, flying away."
      -- Peter Carey, BLISS
     cialis cheap cialisMemories of you remind me of you.
     -- Karl Lehenbauer
      buy cialis order cialis online Some 1500 miles west of the Big Apple we find the Minneapple, a
     haven of tranquility in troubled times. It's a good town, a civilized town.
     A town where they still know how to get your shirts back by Thursday. Let
     the Big Apple have the feats of "Broadway Joe" Namath. We have known the
     stolid but steady Killebrew. Listening to Cole Porter over a dry martini
     may well suit those unlucky enough never to have heard the Whoopee John Polka
     Band and never to have shared a pitcher of 3.2 Grain Belt Beer. The loss is
     theirs. And the Big Apple has yet to bake the bagel that can match peanut
     butter on lefse. Here is a town where the major urban problem is dutch elm
     disease and the number one crime is overtime parking. We boast more theater
     per capita than the Big Apple. We go to see, not to be seen. We go even
     when we must shovel ten inches of snow from the driveway to get there. Indeed
     the winters are fierce. But then comes the marvel of the Minneapple summer.
     People flock to the city's lakes to frolic and rejoice at the sight of so
     much happy humanity free from the bonds of the traditional down-filled parka.
     Here's to the Minneapple. And to its people. Our flair for style is balanced
     by a healthy respect for wind chill factors.
      And we always, always eat our vegetables.
      This is the Minneapple.
     

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