Michael's Helpful Solution to Fidel's Impending Death

Well, hopefully the old tyrant is dying; if he's already dead, I hope someone remembers to drive a stake in his heart, lest he rise up.

I've been thinking about the fate of that poor island, and while I'm waiting for the State Depatment to call me for my solution, I thought I'd explain it to you guys. It's simplicity in the extreme:

Jame Gandolfini.

That's right...replace Fidel Castro with Tony Soprano. Oh, I know James Gandolfini isn't really Tony Soprano the Mob Boss, but let's face it...Cuba isn't really a country, either. It's South Beach South waiting to happen!

I was in Cuba before 9/11, at Guantanamo drinking mojitos and eating jerk chicken with the then base commander. The commander's house was this big plantation-like place, and the commander and I were standing on the second floor veranda, looking out over the mountains in the Santiago de Cuba province. I'd been out snorkeling earlier in the day, and I remarked how pristine the waters around Cuba were. The commander agreed it was amazing how clean things are when there's no industry. We talked about Che and the Revolution for a bit, then he said, "You know, someday this is going to be one hell of a Club Med. You and I won't even be able to afford it."

Too true! But with James Gandolfini at the helm, we could turn Cuba into a Mafia Disneyland, with thrill rides, gambling, hookers, horse races and some sort of water feature.

Sign me up for the first E-Ticket, and in the meantime here's Peggy Noonan's far more adult take on the situation:

If he is actually ill, why not arrange it so that the last sounds he hears on earth are a great racket from the streets? What, he will ask the nurse, is that? "Oh," she can explain, "they are rebuilding Havana. It's the Hilton Corp. Except for the drills. That's Steve Wynn. The jackhammer is Ave Maria University, building an extension campus."

Imagine him hearing this. It would, finally, be the exploding cigar. That's the way to make his beard fall off.

You've probably heard this story before, but it's very germaine today...I spent some time out at this ratty bar near the Wire, the separation between Guantanamo and the real Cuba, drinking "Fireballs" — half pepperment schnapps, half Tabasco — with the Marines who walked the Wire. It was like drinking Instant-Ulcer. I'd made the mistake of saying, hey, it was o-vah! The Berlin Wall had fallen; the USSR had fallen; Cuba would fall.

One of the young Marines braced me, saying, "You don't know shit!" He then grabbed another Marine who'd just come in from his tour. "Show him," the first Marine said.

The newcomer reached into his BDUs and pulled out a huge role of cash wrapped with rubber bands.

"You know what they've got over there?" the first Marine said. "Classic cars, classic motorcycles, God knows what — all in perfect condition! That Wire comes down, and we're gonna to be the first across, and we're gonna to be buying!"

I bought the next round in deference to the sheer redemptive power of capitalism!