Ice Age
Hello World,
Brrrrr! I don't know about where you are, but it certainly hasn't warmed up any around here, since the last time you heard from me, and I don't mind saying, I'm plenty sick and tired of it already. We even had a messy pile-up of snow, sleet, slush, freezing rain and ice that snarled traffic and resisted all efforts to clear it from walks and roadways. After that, it stayed so cold that you couldn't budge it with a blowtorch, and I ought to know. (At this point, I'm obligated for legal reasons to say, please don't try this at home.) And don't think I'm taking the fall for it this time, because I'm just washing my hands of the whole business. I didn't give away all my winter clothes and flannel sheets to the homeless, or buy a convertible or a new swimsuit. In fact, if anything, I should have ushered in a new era of global warming when I put the second of the new bird bath heaters in the decorative fountain, so the birds could have some fresh water in the midst of this frozen wasteland, and I frankly expected the temperature to shoot up dozens of degrees while I was doing it. It didn't then, and in fact it still hasn't, and I must say that the bird bath heaters are both hanging in there and doing yeoman service at keeping the ice at bay in their little aquatic bailiwick. Why, bless their little temperature-controlled hearts.
Speaking of temperature control, everyone remembers that I moved out of my old office at work because it was unbearably hot, and moved next door, where it is consistently much cooler for some reason. In fact, sometimes this can go just a little bit too far, until it can only be considered too much of a good thing. It's true that the building I'm in is nothing but a 100-year-old pile of mud and straw, and the whole heating and cooling concept has never really taken hold in a consistent way throughout the structure. So it often happens that one part of the building will be freezing cold, while another will be roasting hot, all at the same time and with no rhyme or reason, since these conditions might easily be reversed the next day, or even later on the same day. Last week, I had someone from upstairs in Finance, where it was hot, come into my office and announce, "My, this is refreshing!" Of course, he said this while his teeth were chattering, and he had a look on his face that said, "Man, it's stone cold in here!" I sympathized with his frost-bitten nose and frozen fingers, and spoke to him out in the hallway where it was warmer than my office. But I had to tell him that after years of suffering from the blistering heat in my old office, at this point I'd rather cut off my arm than close the window in my new office. And I have to remind people that even after 100 years, the climate control in that building is still a work in progress.
Alert readers may be wondering about the Annual Congregational Meeting at church, which has historically taken place on SuperBowl Sunday. Actually, the congregation is over 100 years old, while the so-called SuperBowl is a mere 41 years old, so for at least the first 60 years, the annual meeting could not have been held on anything resembling SuperBowl Sunday in any case. But at least for a while there in recent memory, both the annual meeting and the SuperBowl were both commonly taking place on the last Sunday in January. Moreover, it's been my experience at church through the years that anything which happens more than once is considered historical, and therefore, sacrosanct. However, when the SuperBowl elected to up and move itself into February, and I don't mind saying without consulting any of us regardless of the implications, the congregation felt that it was too long to wait for us to make our vitally important decisions, so our meeting remained at the last weekend in January, and devil take the hindmost. (And he's welcome to them!) Of course, the dinosaurs and I can remember when something had to be actually historic, in terms of standing the test of time, before it could be considered historical, but that is apparently about as obsolete now as, well, the dinosaurs, I guess. In any event, the annual meeting did in fact occur and right on schedule, and was attended by all of the usual suspects, where business was conducted and decisions were reached, and even concluded in a timely manner without incident. I know it seems impossible to believe that you can have a bunch of grouchy Lutherans get together without riots, but this was indeed the case. And people say there is no God!
Also taking place without riots, apparently, was Waitangi Day in New Zealand on February 6, which passed quietly and without any notoriety on the international scene for a change. For a holiday built around acrimony, defiance and violence, this might signal a new era of understanding and cooperation, or at the very least, the delusional among us might wish for it to be so. What this world really needs, instead of reality shows like "Survivor" or "American Idol," is an international competition called "So You Want To Have A National Holiday?" Simon Cowell and Regis Philbin and Rosie O'Donnell could review all the holidays that all of the countries submit for approval, and anything that includes riots, automatic weapons, lawsuits or tanks would get voted right off the show. After that would be the "holidays," and I use that term guardedly, that involve fasting, flag-burning and trampling pilgrims in stampedes, and good riddance. We would get to the point where there would be nothing left except Arbor Day and Cinco de Mayo, and all the rest of the holidays wouldn't be allowed back until they can get their act together. Are you listening, St. Patrick's Day?
Speaking of people who need to get their act together, anyone on the hospital computer over the weekend couldn't help but wonder about this message that appeared on their screens early Saturday morning: "please all users sign off your terminals by 9:25am, you will be able to sign back on at 9:10am." Well, sure, as long as I can hop into my way-back machine and go back in time 15 minutes so I can sign back on before the time I'm supposed to be signing off. Huh??? After about two hours of sending this same message every 15 minutes, they finally corrected it so that the sign off time was BEFORE the time that you could sign back on again. If that's not a miracle of modern technology, I don't know what is. And people say there is no doG!
While we're on the topic of modern technology, Bill and I like to watch a program on The History Channel called "Modern Marvels," and it usually spotlights some interesting mechanical wonder, like massive tunnel diggers, nuclear submarines or spy satellites. Often, even when it's an object that we wouldn't find interesting in and of itself, the show is so well done that we enjoy seeing it in spite of the subject. Thanks to the program grid in the TV listings of our local newspaper, there isn't enough room to identify more than the title of the show and perhaps one other word. This occasionally has the effect of creating some inadvertent comedy when, instead of listing a program about ice breakers or snow plows, it simply reads, "Modern Marvels: Ice" or "Modern Marvels: Snow" and leaving people to shake their heads and wonder. I said to Bill that there's very little that's less modern than ice and snow, and while they may well be marvels, they are practically the definition of ancient. Yesterday, the listings outdid themselves with this classic of the genre, which promised "Modern Marvels: Water." Well, apart from dirt, I don't think you can get any more elemental than water, and if that's the newspaper's idea of a modern marvel, then I can tell you that the dinosaurs and I would be very surprised indeed.
Meanwhile, our friends at Haband are up to their old tricks, and offering all of us value-conscious shoppers a pack of assorted Ergo-Grip Comfo-Pens in a variety of colors. They claim that these pens are scientifically constructed to fit perfectly and comfortably in your hand, so you can write at length without aches, fatigue or discomfort. They assure me that the pens feature a sleek, modern design with high-quality black ink and a rubberized comfort grip. Then, flying in the face of reason, or linguistic comprehension, a blaring sticker screams: BRAND NEW! IMPROVED! Well, this is where Haband and I part company on these pens. Something that's brand new can't also be improved, by its very definition, since it hasn't been around before to be improved upon. It's all well and good to take something and improve it, but then you can't claim that it's "brand new," since it obviously already existed before you started tinkering with it. No, I'm afraid that this hyperbole simply doesn't pass the test of logic, or truth in advertising, and I simply cannot countenance it. All of you "brand new and improved" sorts will just have to take your countenances elsewhere, and your lack of standards along with you.
That reminds me of a funny thing that happened at church recently, when I was packing up the invoices, bank statements and canceled checks for 2005 out of the file cabinet to make room for 2006 and 2007, since we only keep two years at a time in the files. I very carefully collected everything in order, and I don't mind saying nice and neat, and packed it all up in a bag securely and clearly marked with the year and contents. I was sure that there would be a handy space in the storage closet in the balcony where I could file this precious package of financial records for safekeeping, so our transactions would be protected for the benefit of future generations. But at the moment, I felt that I didn't really have the time to do that, so I thought I would leave it somewhere temporarily until I had more time to put it away for good. "I know," I said to myself extemporaneously as a sudden thought popped unbidden into my head, "I'll leave it on top of the coat closet in the Narthex by the stairs to the balcony. It will be out of the way, no one will see it, and it will be nice and safe until I move it, and already halfway up the stairs besides." Thinking this was a brilliant inspiration, I carried the bundle over to the closet in a jaunty manner, and climbed up the stairs to position it on top of the closet in an unobtrusive spot. I nestled it in the corner, between a box of plastic numbers for the hymnal board, and another parcel that seemed oddly familiar. Sure enough, when I took a closer look at the other parcel, it was marked very clearly: "2004 invoices, bank statements, canceled checks." Well, I suppose there's something to be said for consistency, if nothing else, although I will admit that the dinosaurs had a good laugh over that one. In fact, it might even be considered historic, except of course, we have our standards.
Brrrrr! I don't know about where you are, but it certainly hasn't warmed up any around here, since the last time you heard from me, and I don't mind saying, I'm plenty sick and tired of it already. We even had a messy pile-up of snow, sleet, slush, freezing rain and ice that snarled traffic and resisted all efforts to clear it from walks and roadways. After that, it stayed so cold that you couldn't budge it with a blowtorch, and I ought to know. (At this point, I'm obligated for legal reasons to say, please don't try this at home.) And don't think I'm taking the fall for it this time, because I'm just washing my hands of the whole business. I didn't give away all my winter clothes and flannel sheets to the homeless, or buy a convertible or a new swimsuit. In fact, if anything, I should have ushered in a new era of global warming when I put the second of the new bird bath heaters in the decorative fountain, so the birds could have some fresh water in the midst of this frozen wasteland, and I frankly expected the temperature to shoot up dozens of degrees while I was doing it. It didn't then, and in fact it still hasn't, and I must say that the bird bath heaters are both hanging in there and doing yeoman service at keeping the ice at bay in their little aquatic bailiwick. Why, bless their little temperature-controlled hearts.
Speaking of temperature control, everyone remembers that I moved out of my old office at work because it was unbearably hot, and moved next door, where it is consistently much cooler for some reason. In fact, sometimes this can go just a little bit too far, until it can only be considered too much of a good thing. It's true that the building I'm in is nothing but a 100-year-old pile of mud and straw, and the whole heating and cooling concept has never really taken hold in a consistent way throughout the structure. So it often happens that one part of the building will be freezing cold, while another will be roasting hot, all at the same time and with no rhyme or reason, since these conditions might easily be reversed the next day, or even later on the same day. Last week, I had someone from upstairs in Finance, where it was hot, come into my office and announce, "My, this is refreshing!" Of course, he said this while his teeth were chattering, and he had a look on his face that said, "Man, it's stone cold in here!" I sympathized with his frost-bitten nose and frozen fingers, and spoke to him out in the hallway where it was warmer than my office. But I had to tell him that after years of suffering from the blistering heat in my old office, at this point I'd rather cut off my arm than close the window in my new office. And I have to remind people that even after 100 years, the climate control in that building is still a work in progress.
Alert readers may be wondering about the Annual Congregational Meeting at church, which has historically taken place on SuperBowl Sunday. Actually, the congregation is over 100 years old, while the so-called SuperBowl is a mere 41 years old, so for at least the first 60 years, the annual meeting could not have been held on anything resembling SuperBowl Sunday in any case. But at least for a while there in recent memory, both the annual meeting and the SuperBowl were both commonly taking place on the last Sunday in January. Moreover, it's been my experience at church through the years that anything which happens more than once is considered historical, and therefore, sacrosanct. However, when the SuperBowl elected to up and move itself into February, and I don't mind saying without consulting any of us regardless of the implications, the congregation felt that it was too long to wait for us to make our vitally important decisions, so our meeting remained at the last weekend in January, and devil take the hindmost. (And he's welcome to them!) Of course, the dinosaurs and I can remember when something had to be actually historic, in terms of standing the test of time, before it could be considered historical, but that is apparently about as obsolete now as, well, the dinosaurs, I guess. In any event, the annual meeting did in fact occur and right on schedule, and was attended by all of the usual suspects, where business was conducted and decisions were reached, and even concluded in a timely manner without incident. I know it seems impossible to believe that you can have a bunch of grouchy Lutherans get together without riots, but this was indeed the case. And people say there is no God!
Also taking place without riots, apparently, was Waitangi Day in New Zealand on February 6, which passed quietly and without any notoriety on the international scene for a change. For a holiday built around acrimony, defiance and violence, this might signal a new era of understanding and cooperation, or at the very least, the delusional among us might wish for it to be so. What this world really needs, instead of reality shows like "Survivor" or "American Idol," is an international competition called "So You Want To Have A National Holiday?" Simon Cowell and Regis Philbin and Rosie O'Donnell could review all the holidays that all of the countries submit for approval, and anything that includes riots, automatic weapons, lawsuits or tanks would get voted right off the show. After that would be the "holidays," and I use that term guardedly, that involve fasting, flag-burning and trampling pilgrims in stampedes, and good riddance. We would get to the point where there would be nothing left except Arbor Day and Cinco de Mayo, and all the rest of the holidays wouldn't be allowed back until they can get their act together. Are you listening, St. Patrick's Day?
Speaking of people who need to get their act together, anyone on the hospital computer over the weekend couldn't help but wonder about this message that appeared on their screens early Saturday morning: "please all users sign off your terminals by 9:25am, you will be able to sign back on at 9:10am." Well, sure, as long as I can hop into my way-back machine and go back in time 15 minutes so I can sign back on before the time I'm supposed to be signing off. Huh??? After about two hours of sending this same message every 15 minutes, they finally corrected it so that the sign off time was BEFORE the time that you could sign back on again. If that's not a miracle of modern technology, I don't know what is. And people say there is no doG!
While we're on the topic of modern technology, Bill and I like to watch a program on The History Channel called "Modern Marvels," and it usually spotlights some interesting mechanical wonder, like massive tunnel diggers, nuclear submarines or spy satellites. Often, even when it's an object that we wouldn't find interesting in and of itself, the show is so well done that we enjoy seeing it in spite of the subject. Thanks to the program grid in the TV listings of our local newspaper, there isn't enough room to identify more than the title of the show and perhaps one other word. This occasionally has the effect of creating some inadvertent comedy when, instead of listing a program about ice breakers or snow plows, it simply reads, "Modern Marvels: Ice" or "Modern Marvels: Snow" and leaving people to shake their heads and wonder. I said to Bill that there's very little that's less modern than ice and snow, and while they may well be marvels, they are practically the definition of ancient. Yesterday, the listings outdid themselves with this classic of the genre, which promised "Modern Marvels: Water." Well, apart from dirt, I don't think you can get any more elemental than water, and if that's the newspaper's idea of a modern marvel, then I can tell you that the dinosaurs and I would be very surprised indeed.
Meanwhile, our friends at Haband are up to their old tricks, and offering all of us value-conscious shoppers a pack of assorted Ergo-Grip Comfo-Pens in a variety of colors. They claim that these pens are scientifically constructed to fit perfectly and comfortably in your hand, so you can write at length without aches, fatigue or discomfort. They assure me that the pens feature a sleek, modern design with high-quality black ink and a rubberized comfort grip. Then, flying in the face of reason, or linguistic comprehension, a blaring sticker screams: BRAND NEW! IMPROVED! Well, this is where Haband and I part company on these pens. Something that's brand new can't also be improved, by its very definition, since it hasn't been around before to be improved upon. It's all well and good to take something and improve it, but then you can't claim that it's "brand new," since it obviously already existed before you started tinkering with it. No, I'm afraid that this hyperbole simply doesn't pass the test of logic, or truth in advertising, and I simply cannot countenance it. All of you "brand new and improved" sorts will just have to take your countenances elsewhere, and your lack of standards along with you.
That reminds me of a funny thing that happened at church recently, when I was packing up the invoices, bank statements and canceled checks for 2005 out of the file cabinet to make room for 2006 and 2007, since we only keep two years at a time in the files. I very carefully collected everything in order, and I don't mind saying nice and neat, and packed it all up in a bag securely and clearly marked with the year and contents. I was sure that there would be a handy space in the storage closet in the balcony where I could file this precious package of financial records for safekeeping, so our transactions would be protected for the benefit of future generations. But at the moment, I felt that I didn't really have the time to do that, so I thought I would leave it somewhere temporarily until I had more time to put it away for good. "I know," I said to myself extemporaneously as a sudden thought popped unbidden into my head, "I'll leave it on top of the coat closet in the Narthex by the stairs to the balcony. It will be out of the way, no one will see it, and it will be nice and safe until I move it, and already halfway up the stairs besides." Thinking this was a brilliant inspiration, I carried the bundle over to the closet in a jaunty manner, and climbed up the stairs to position it on top of the closet in an unobtrusive spot. I nestled it in the corner, between a box of plastic numbers for the hymnal board, and another parcel that seemed oddly familiar. Sure enough, when I took a closer look at the other parcel, it was marked very clearly: "2004 invoices, bank statements, canceled checks." Well, I suppose there's something to be said for consistency, if nothing else, although I will admit that the dinosaurs had a good laugh over that one. In fact, it might even be considered historic, except of course, we have our standards.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:32 PM
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