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July 24, 2005
Volume 4, Issue 24
rialto (re-AL-to) noun
1. A theatre district.
2. An exchange or marketplace.
Laurence - And the last to leave the scene of the crime
I have no memory of Venice.
I've been told that I've been there. Twice. But aside from this pair of scars on my temple and two receipts from Lethe Incorporated, I really can't tell you anything about it.
However, every time I see the Rialto or St. Marks in a movie or in an article I'm looking up, I get that odd sense of familiarity. As familiar as my own breathing.
And I want to go back. For the first time. Again.
Confusing, right?
You know, there's that hotel in Vegas that looks like Venice.
I should go there instead.
Michele: All The Small Things
Greta was able to get into the market early, before the pushing, jostling crowds burst through the doors.
She walked the perimeter, taking in the specialties of each section. Edibles, where the vendors hung their pickings over vats of steaming, spiced water, the aroma drifting through the aisles. In HomeHelpers and Pets, sellers had their products out already, making sure they were ready to go. Greta marveled at the pickings; she’d never seen such a better lot of wares.
Finally, the opening announcement: “Welcome to the Annual WitchCove Children Market!”
If only the children didn’t cry so much, Greta thought.
Ted: Working the Circuit
The comic had played all the big venues. Peakskills, Atlantic City, Poconos, even Vegas. He spent a couple months each spring working on new routines. He would try them out in the Peakskillls first, of course. If he died, he would just tweak the act until it killed, then start out on the road. Town after town, all over the Steel Belt first. Summers up on Lake Erie, autumns in the casinos, winters in the Poconos, then back home. He always played The Rialto for New Year's.
For twenty six years he made a fine living. Then the Rialto burned.
Stacy: Conversation About Nothing
"Reee-all-toe..."
"That's right."
"Isn't that some sort of rope?"
"Rope?"
"Yeah, cowboys use it, they lasso their cows with it."
"I think they call them cattle. Cows give milk, generally don't need lassoing."
"Whatever. So it's a rope, right?"
"You're thinking of 'lariat', not 'rialto'. A lariat is a rope, a rialto is a marketplace."
“So we’re going to a marketplace?”
“Yes, why not?”
“No reason, I just thought that we were going to rope cows.”
“Cattle.”
“Cattle, whatever.”
“So, we’ve flown thousands of miles here to beautiful Venice, Italy, and you thought today we’d go rope cows?”
“Cattle.”
“Whatever.”
Andy: Red Dawn It Ain't
They gathered in the dark, amid broken seats, tattered curtains, and the well-worn wood of an abandoned theatre in what was a vibrant arts district before the new regime took power.
They sat close on stage and spoke in whispers, dared to utter words that were unwelcome in the open light of day. Words like "freedom" and "democracy." Forgotten phrases such as "of the people," "by the people," and "for the people."
Each syllable echoed across the shadowed expanse of empty rows, a chorused call to arms for a revolution in its infancy.
This was their marketplace of perilous ideas.