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The cause was brain cancer, his son, Michael, said.
Mr. Barsotti made pasta talk. He drew hot dogs planning cookouts. His lines were spare and clean, whether drawn or written:
• An anxious-looking man emerges through clouds at heaven’s gate, greeted by a bemused St. Peter. “No, no, that’s not a sin, either,” St. Peter says. “My goodness, you must have worried yourself to death.”
• A small dog, seated in a psychiatrist’s chair, talks to a human patient: “Well, I think you’re wonderful.”
• An older man with a walking stick plods in the direction a sign is pointing. The sign says “Truth.” The man is on a treadmill.
• A gregarious piece of rigatoni talks into a telephone: “Fusilli, you crazy bastard! How are you?”
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