Ding-A-Ling
Hello World,
Greetings again from beyond the half-way point of the month. Where does the time go? And for once, we can't even blame that on the nefarious impact of Daylight Saving Time, because that happened in March. In fact, that was one of the only good things about the government moving the change of time back a few weeks, was that you didn't have hordes of confused Christians going to church at the wrong time on Palm Sunday, or even worse, Easter. (Pardon me, that should have been, "Easter DAY" as they say nowadays.)
But other than that, there certainly hasn't been much to recommend April so far, between bad weather, bad news and all around bad karma, it's like we got stuck with the Mr. Hyde part of April, rather than the Dr. Jekyll part instead. Of course, Dr. Kildare would have been even better.
A further disadvantage of April, apart from just the local weather, which has been frightful (and to our old nemesis Comrade Mischka, thanks nyet!) we've entered that precarious time of the year when the potential exists to watch two of our teams lose on the same day. I can't even begin to explain what a revolting development this would turn out to be, because mere words would be woefully inadequate for the purpose. Luckily, we didn't have that problem to contend with last week, because the Rangers managed to sweep past their opponent in the opening round of the playoffs without losing a game, so the worst we could do with them and the Mets was a split. In fact, on several occasions, we were in the enviable position of both home teams winning on the same day, which is a rare jewel beyond price. Of course, we harbor no illusions for the second round of the playoffs, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, with our memories to console us. For the moment, we're Cinderella, before the clock strikes midnight and everything turns back into mice and pumpkins. (Frankly, I'd rather see the Buffalo Sabres or Ottawa Senators turn into mice and pumpkins instead, which would certainly throw a new and welcome wrinkle into the semi-finals for the Rangers.) Or in the immortal words of Harry S Truman, who was obviously a big hockey fan, "The Puck Stops Here."
Meanwhile at work, I hadn't seen our bookkeeper from down the hall at any point during the day, so when I finally bumped into her after lunch, I said, "Just getting in now, are you?" "You bet," she quipped, "and I'm drunk, besides!" I laughed. I was glad to see her, because I needed to give her a refund check that the hospital had received from AT&T for a credit on one of our numerous accounts with the phone company. It had been given to me, so that I could put the correct cost center on it, for the department whose account had earned the refund, and they would get the credit for it. It was important to get this information precisely accurate, because the refund check was for the stupendous amount of 76 whole cents, and we certainly wouldn't have wanted that to be applied to the wrong department. And I don't mind saying that the dinosaurs and I had a good laugh over it, because we remember when no one would consider it cost-effective to produce an actual check for any amount under $1.00, but I suppose that kind of thinking has gone the way of, well, the dinosaurs, I guess. I don't have any idea how the department is going to be able to decide how to spend this windfall that has dropped into their laps. They'll probably form a committee to look into it.
Today after work, I was cut off in traffic by someone who did so many things wrong, you couldn't help but look around for Allen Funt and the "Candid Camera" crew, expecting this to be an elaborate practical joke, and not just some moron who got their drivers license out of a Cracker Jack box. I said to Bill later that it was just too classic to have this "accident waiting to happen" end up in front of me, who turned out to be an old bald man in a silver Corvette convertible (no mid-life crisis there, right?) and with a vanity license plate that said: "ASYLUM." I admit that I laughed out loud, and even though the window was open, I couldn't stop myself from blurting out, "I don't doubt it!" I'm thinking that if you're going to drive like that, you really can't have that license plate, it's just asking for trouble, and I don't mind saying, just as likely to find it. Like the purple cement mixer from last week, which can only be described as indescribable, this may be an idea whose time has not yet come. Sort of like Daylight Saving Time, only without all the sand mixed in.
Speaking of bad timing, here is a story that only became note-worthy (by the way, that pun is intended, as you shall see) over the course of several months. It all began innocently enough no doubt, many years ago, although the details are lost to the mists of time at this point. All I know for sure is that I needed a cardboard shopping bag to carry presents with us when we were visiting our friends for a late mini-Christmas on MLK weekend in January. I wanted something sturdy that would stand up by itself and not tip over, and I dashed into the attic and grabbed the first likely looking bag that I came to, and when I noticed that it was decorated with a Christmas motif, I considered it a serendipitous coincidence. I packed it carefully with our treasures, hoping to keep the bows from being squashed, and then took that and a bunch of other things out to the car. When I got to the driveway, I started hearing this faint but noticeable sound that went "Ding-ding-ding! Ding-ding-ding! Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!" Mind you, this was the middle of January, and even if someone had programmed their cell phone with a seasonal ring tone, I couldn't figure out why I would be hearing the unmistakable strains of Jingle Bells at this late date. It just kept up like that as I was walking to the car, although it didn't get any louder or softer, if I was getting closer or farther away from it. The next surprise was when it stopped with Jingle Bells and went right into We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and when I got to the car and put everything down to open the door, this was the first I noticed that it was in fact the decorative Christmas shopping bag that was making all this noise. Apparently years ago, someone had given us this bag with a gift, and no doubt picked it out special, with this feature that you can press a decal by the handle and make it play Christmas music like tiny synthesized bells. I had forgotten all about it, and it stayed forlorn and neglected in the attic all this time, and never made a peep when I picked it up and packed it, but apparently in the jostling motion of carrying it out to the car, it was just enough to induce it to play its little medley of seasonal tunes. I told Bill that story later, and we both had a good laugh over it, especially when we carried the bags up the steps at our friends' house, and it went off all over again. We all got a kick out of it, and appreciated its enthusiasm, however misplaced. I thought no more about it until three months later, when the Easter Bunny needed a sturdy bag to carry a couple of pots of hyacinths and tulips to Mom's house, and grabbed that same bag, which suited the purpose admirably. This time it waited until we got to Mom's to burst into song, and to say that Jingle Bells and Deck The Halls made even less sense on Easter than on Martin Luther King would be putting it mildly.
While we're on the topic of music, I can finally say after all this time that my camping experience has been immortalized, because my campsite now has its own theme song. Bill is not always recognized for his creative efforts, but should be, and he recorded a lovely and harmonious paean to that prize among campsites, the superlative C-35 of lore and legend, not to mention those halcyon days of yore. It's true that other campsites may be more desirable, and other campgrounds may have more amenities, but I don't know of any other site with its own theme song, so as far as I'm concerned, that has trounced the competition right out of the starting gate and there's no hope for them now. They will be forever among the also-rans, and only C-35 will stand head and shoulders above the rest, unique in its musical heritage. Now all it needs is its own motto to really round things out. I'm thinking of: "The Clock Stops Here. This Site Is A Daylight Saving Time-Free Zone."
Greetings again from beyond the half-way point of the month. Where does the time go? And for once, we can't even blame that on the nefarious impact of Daylight Saving Time, because that happened in March. In fact, that was one of the only good things about the government moving the change of time back a few weeks, was that you didn't have hordes of confused Christians going to church at the wrong time on Palm Sunday, or even worse, Easter. (Pardon me, that should have been, "Easter DAY" as they say nowadays.)
But other than that, there certainly hasn't been much to recommend April so far, between bad weather, bad news and all around bad karma, it's like we got stuck with the Mr. Hyde part of April, rather than the Dr. Jekyll part instead. Of course, Dr. Kildare would have been even better.
A further disadvantage of April, apart from just the local weather, which has been frightful (and to our old nemesis Comrade Mischka, thanks nyet!) we've entered that precarious time of the year when the potential exists to watch two of our teams lose on the same day. I can't even begin to explain what a revolting development this would turn out to be, because mere words would be woefully inadequate for the purpose. Luckily, we didn't have that problem to contend with last week, because the Rangers managed to sweep past their opponent in the opening round of the playoffs without losing a game, so the worst we could do with them and the Mets was a split. In fact, on several occasions, we were in the enviable position of both home teams winning on the same day, which is a rare jewel beyond price. Of course, we harbor no illusions for the second round of the playoffs, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, with our memories to console us. For the moment, we're Cinderella, before the clock strikes midnight and everything turns back into mice and pumpkins. (Frankly, I'd rather see the Buffalo Sabres or Ottawa Senators turn into mice and pumpkins instead, which would certainly throw a new and welcome wrinkle into the semi-finals for the Rangers.) Or in the immortal words of Harry S Truman, who was obviously a big hockey fan, "The Puck Stops Here."
Meanwhile at work, I hadn't seen our bookkeeper from down the hall at any point during the day, so when I finally bumped into her after lunch, I said, "Just getting in now, are you?" "You bet," she quipped, "and I'm drunk, besides!" I laughed. I was glad to see her, because I needed to give her a refund check that the hospital had received from AT&T for a credit on one of our numerous accounts with the phone company. It had been given to me, so that I could put the correct cost center on it, for the department whose account had earned the refund, and they would get the credit for it. It was important to get this information precisely accurate, because the refund check was for the stupendous amount of 76 whole cents, and we certainly wouldn't have wanted that to be applied to the wrong department. And I don't mind saying that the dinosaurs and I had a good laugh over it, because we remember when no one would consider it cost-effective to produce an actual check for any amount under $1.00, but I suppose that kind of thinking has gone the way of, well, the dinosaurs, I guess. I don't have any idea how the department is going to be able to decide how to spend this windfall that has dropped into their laps. They'll probably form a committee to look into it.
Today after work, I was cut off in traffic by someone who did so many things wrong, you couldn't help but look around for Allen Funt and the "Candid Camera" crew, expecting this to be an elaborate practical joke, and not just some moron who got their drivers license out of a Cracker Jack box. I said to Bill later that it was just too classic to have this "accident waiting to happen" end up in front of me, who turned out to be an old bald man in a silver Corvette convertible (no mid-life crisis there, right?) and with a vanity license plate that said: "ASYLUM." I admit that I laughed out loud, and even though the window was open, I couldn't stop myself from blurting out, "I don't doubt it!" I'm thinking that if you're going to drive like that, you really can't have that license plate, it's just asking for trouble, and I don't mind saying, just as likely to find it. Like the purple cement mixer from last week, which can only be described as indescribable, this may be an idea whose time has not yet come. Sort of like Daylight Saving Time, only without all the sand mixed in.
Speaking of bad timing, here is a story that only became note-worthy (by the way, that pun is intended, as you shall see) over the course of several months. It all began innocently enough no doubt, many years ago, although the details are lost to the mists of time at this point. All I know for sure is that I needed a cardboard shopping bag to carry presents with us when we were visiting our friends for a late mini-Christmas on MLK weekend in January. I wanted something sturdy that would stand up by itself and not tip over, and I dashed into the attic and grabbed the first likely looking bag that I came to, and when I noticed that it was decorated with a Christmas motif, I considered it a serendipitous coincidence. I packed it carefully with our treasures, hoping to keep the bows from being squashed, and then took that and a bunch of other things out to the car. When I got to the driveway, I started hearing this faint but noticeable sound that went "Ding-ding-ding! Ding-ding-ding! Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!" Mind you, this was the middle of January, and even if someone had programmed their cell phone with a seasonal ring tone, I couldn't figure out why I would be hearing the unmistakable strains of Jingle Bells at this late date. It just kept up like that as I was walking to the car, although it didn't get any louder or softer, if I was getting closer or farther away from it. The next surprise was when it stopped with Jingle Bells and went right into We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and when I got to the car and put everything down to open the door, this was the first I noticed that it was in fact the decorative Christmas shopping bag that was making all this noise. Apparently years ago, someone had given us this bag with a gift, and no doubt picked it out special, with this feature that you can press a decal by the handle and make it play Christmas music like tiny synthesized bells. I had forgotten all about it, and it stayed forlorn and neglected in the attic all this time, and never made a peep when I picked it up and packed it, but apparently in the jostling motion of carrying it out to the car, it was just enough to induce it to play its little medley of seasonal tunes. I told Bill that story later, and we both had a good laugh over it, especially when we carried the bags up the steps at our friends' house, and it went off all over again. We all got a kick out of it, and appreciated its enthusiasm, however misplaced. I thought no more about it until three months later, when the Easter Bunny needed a sturdy bag to carry a couple of pots of hyacinths and tulips to Mom's house, and grabbed that same bag, which suited the purpose admirably. This time it waited until we got to Mom's to burst into song, and to say that Jingle Bells and Deck The Halls made even less sense on Easter than on Martin Luther King would be putting it mildly.
While we're on the topic of music, I can finally say after all this time that my camping experience has been immortalized, because my campsite now has its own theme song. Bill is not always recognized for his creative efforts, but should be, and he recorded a lovely and harmonious paean to that prize among campsites, the superlative C-35 of lore and legend, not to mention those halcyon days of yore. It's true that other campsites may be more desirable, and other campgrounds may have more amenities, but I don't know of any other site with its own theme song, so as far as I'm concerned, that has trounced the competition right out of the starting gate and there's no hope for them now. They will be forever among the also-rans, and only C-35 will stand head and shoulders above the rest, unique in its musical heritage. Now all it needs is its own motto to really round things out. I'm thinking of: "The Clock Stops Here. This Site Is A Daylight Saving Time-Free Zone."
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 8:13 PM
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