I have come to a shocking conclusion: I sound like Dr. Phil. whenever I speak the local dialect.  It is not that I am proffering sage advice to my small town Neapolitan compatriots.  That rickety yola sailed off into stormy waters long ago when I realized these yokels prefer the counsel of more salubrious individuals, like Berlusconi or Don Corleone.  No, I am starting to sound like a Dr. Phyllis because I have adopted a new disturbing habit of speaking in ridiculous American clichés that prominently feature animals, and usually animals behaving badly.  I imagine Dr. Phil confidently pontificating to a group of incestuous Arkansans getting ready to start the Atkins diet and finally quit the meth—You can’t wrastle a gator with out breakin’ into a back sweat.  Or some other similarly vacant zoological aphorism that masquerades as wisdom.  I laugh.  I don’t speak that way.  The electrically dulcet tones of my voice sound more like E.E. Cummings making love with Emily Dickinson.