Putting On The Dog

Hello World,

Happy September! Who would have believed that we'd be saying that, when it seems like scant moments ago, we were all wishing each other a happy Valentine's Day, Hong Kong Bok Choy or a holly jolly Waitangi Day, and leave off the riots, if you please. It just doesn't seem possible that the Back-To-School season is upon us, with its ubiquitous sales on all of the classics for going back to school, from candy to lumber to jewelry and everything in between. It would be all too easy to scoff at the rampant commercialism of the times (settle down, dinosaurs!) but it's exactly this sort of conspicuous consumption that keeps the economy humming along as it does, in a way that the unfortunate dinosaurs with all their frugality, could never hope to imitate. So let's all get out there and do our part, whether we're technically going back to school or just as glad not to, and ring up those cash registers full of cuckoo clocks, iPods and roller blades. The President's economic advisers thank you, I'm sure.

Speaking of conspicuous consumption, Bill loves this recent news story, which he believes shows a softer side to The Queen of Mean:

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Helmsley Leaves Dog $12 Million in WillAPPosted: 2007-08-29 14:40:57Filed Under: Business NewsNEW YORK (Aug. 29) - Leona Helmsley's dog will continue to live an opulent life, and then be buried alongside her in a mausoleum. But two of Helmsley's grandchildren got nothing from the late luxury hotelier and real estate billionaire's estate.
Famed hotelier Leona Helmsley, who died Aug. 20, left her dog Trouble $12 million in her will. Helmsley left her beloved white Maltese, named Trouble, a $12 million trust fund, according to her will, which was made public Tuesday in surrogate court. She also left millions for her brother, Alvin Rosenthal, who was named to care for Trouble in her absence, as well as two of four grandchildren from her late son Jay Panzirer. But no one made out better than Trouble, who once appeared in ads for the Helmsley Hotels, and lived up to its name by biting a housekeeper.
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Now, I always knew that I had made a seriously wrong turn in my career path somewhere along the way, and figured that I missed the boat by not deciding to become a plumber instead. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have done the sensible thing and applied for the job of Leona Helmsley's dog. That could have been me, being the 12 million dollar bionic dog, and at those prices, I could have been twice as bionic. You know I always say, it's not what you know, it's who you know.

Speaking of who you know, many of us at the bottom of the ladder where I work, were surprised to find the cafeteria closed on Wednesday last week in the middle of the day. We discovered little by little, in a roundabout way and via third-hand hearsay, which would never stand up in a court of law, that there was a barbecue happening outside in the parking lot, which was open to everyone. We all thought this was a dandy idea, and could only have been dandier if the hospital management in its infinite wisdom had let anyone know about it ahead of time, or even at the same time, so we didn't find out about it more or less by accident. One of our co-workers quipped that this was the Employee Appreciation Barbecue, which is why they didn't bother to invite any of the employees.

Earlier this week at work, every department got a blaring memo from Payroll, demanding everyone's cooperation to get their time cards in early, in order to be processed in time for the long holiday weekend. My favorite part was the screaming subject of the memo, not only all in caps, but also bold, and also underlined, which announced for all the world to see: MEMORIAL DAY HOLIDAY PAYROLL. I said to the Payroll manager (we all remember Tom Sangeverionio!) that I wasn't worried about it, because I figured I had about 6 months to get ready for the Memorial Day holiday payroll, which would occur around May of next year. I happen to know the person who sent it out, who in spite of being Executive Secretary to the CFO, is still a perfect example of why the hospital is considered the Queen City's employer of last resort. Otherwise, I would have to wonder if Comrade Sergei and his infernal Russian date machine hadn't been up to his old tricks once again. And don't forget, I recently sent out a memo dated in the year 200, so I ought to know.

While we're on the subject of date-related shenanigans, we have the following entry on August 24th from our friends at wikipedia (please feel free to visit their web site at www.wikipedia.org and see for yourself) with their limitless store of facts and fancy:

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THIS DAY IN HISTORY

1572 – The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, a wave of Catholic mob violence against the Huguenots, began, lasting for several months and resulting in an estimated tens of thousands deaths across France.
==========================

By golly, that's one heck of a long day! No wonder it's historic, why, it's practically bionic. You'd think it was a 12 million dollar dog or something. Meanwhile, in other community news, the welcome trend in downward gas prices has continued apace, and any number of local petroleum dispensing establishments have posted rates of $2.99/gal and lower. When I was on Long Island last Saturday, it was not uncommon to see prices ranging in the low $2.80s, which is about 40c cheaper for Regular than just a few months ago in these parts. It certainly is a marked improvement, and a sight for sore eyes, not to mention, sore wallets. Of course, who ever thought we'd be grateful at the prospect of $2.80 gasoline, especially those of us who started driving when a whole gallon of gas was only 28c and they pumped it for you and cleaned your windows besides. Back then, people would drive 20 miles out into the boondocks, and fill up at a station selling gas at 25c, probably saving 60c overall and feeling like a pretty shrewd customer. Now we consider ourselves lucky to get it at $2.80 and pump it ourselves. So I suppose it just goes to prove that the dinosaurs had the last laugh after all, and did not die in vain.

I happened to be in a supermarket while I was on Long Island, and wandering aimlessly in the aisles, as I often do when I lose my concentration, which I find is a byproduct of supermarkets for me. At one point, I found myself in the aisle with the frozen foods, and couldn't help but notice the display of Maccabee Kosher Passover Pizza. Obviously, it's nowhere near Passover, which is in the spring, so I expect this must be a year-round treat for anyone in the market for Kosher pizza. Personally, I wouldn't think there would be much of a demand for this frozen comestible, but we can't overlook the possibility that the Kosher convenience food demographic is a force to be reckoned with. Sort of like a 12 million dollar bionic dog, only without the diamond collar. After all, when you've really got it, you don't need to flaunt it.

Ways And Means

Hello World,

Well, just when you expect the month to settle down and peter out, instead we have another week full of notable events and remarkable occurrences. I ought to know, because here I am, remarking on them right now and writing notes about them besides. Jumping on the bandwagon of the recently departed, we lost two jazz legends in Sal Mosca and Max Roach, followed by Leona Helmsley, and bringing up the rear, another one of our cats, who may not have been considered a celebrity in the wide world, but in our house, was certainly a star. I don't doubt George Steinbrenner's assertion that Heaven needed a shortstop, and it would seem self-evident that musicians would always be in demand beyond the Pearly Gates. But I'll admit that I'm stymied at the question of what gap there could have been in the hereafter that needed to be filled by The Queen of Mean at this point, when you would think that enough nasty people had already passed through its portals to render the late Leona wholly superfluous. Of course, I could say that there's just no standards anymore, but that would be mean, and I think we can all agree that one Queen of Mean is more than enough.

Meanwhile, we can thank one of our alert readers (thanks, Deb!) who was kind enough to send along the following date-related information:

=================================
For those looking for a holiday in August, feel free to co-opt my birthday, which is also a National holiday in Costa Rica:
Many pilgrims come to Cartago, Costa Rica, annually, to visit the city's principal church, the enormous Basilica de Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles, on the feast day of the Virgin of the Angels (August 2). The church has a statue of the Black Madonna known as La Negrita, who supposedly had great healing powers. The sick come to her statue in hope of a miracle from La Negrita.
According to folklore in Costa Rica, La Negrita appeared to a young native girl named Juana Pereira, in 1635. The rock where La Negrita made her alleged appearance is kept in a backroom in the basilica and is revered as a sacred relic and object of inspiration. The rock is supposed to be in the same location it was when La Negrita originally appeared, but it has been moved as the basilica was rebuilt. It is common for pilgrims to touch the rock in reverence.
I figure, if August 2 is a National holiday, then we deserve the day off.
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I personally think that would do a lot to improve August, which I don't mind saying, certainly has room for improvement, and you can quote me on that. After all, people don't call me The Queen of Mean for nothing. (They'd better not!)

In other news, and this of a more local character, I was in downtown New York City last Saturday, on a get-together with two college students, and a somewhat vague plan to take in some sights. I had no trouble hopping aboard the 10:00AM train from New Rochelle to Grand Central, and I was hoping that my optimism was not misplaced that the bathroom renovations in the terminal had been completed since my last visit, several months earlier. That proved not to be the case, as half of the bathrooms were still closed, and the lines for the remaining ones were wrapped all around the lower level, even at that hour of the morning. I had a date to meet at 11:00, and still had to take a subway down to Washington Square, so standing on a long line was not an option for me. So instead, I dashed up the stairs two at a time to the main level, and ran like a crazy person through the main concourse to the subways. On a Saturday morning at 10:45, the concourse is a roiling sea of tourists, with half of them standing around taking pictures, and the other half posing. Even running as hard as I could, I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, and was basically making no headway in the crush of humanity. About halfway along, I heard myself say, "It's like Grand Central Station in here!" And don't think I didn't sound just like The Queen of Mean when I said it.

I jumped on the first subway to come along, and got to Laguardia Park not too much later, where I found the young ladies waiting at the foot of the Fiorillo Laguardia statue, and even have the pictures to prove it. Around the corner, the roads were closed and a street fair was going on, full of booths with all manner of colorful skirts, scarves and bags fluttering in the breeze, not to mention my favorite, the sidewalk psychic booth. Anyone who knows me will be surprised that I walked right past the funnel cake and zeppoles, and we enjoyed a more sensible brunch at Crepe Creations instead. Thus fortified, we took the subway even further downtown, until you would think you would run out of dry land, but stopped just in time at the historic Alexander Hamilton U.S. Customs House, handily located next to Battery Park. This Beaux Arts treasure has been beautifully renovated and is now serving a variety of purposes, including The George Gustave Heye Center of the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of the American Indian, and which has the added advantage of free admission. Although I was expecting more in the way of native artifacts, this display was more artistic, and included photographs, sculpture, videos, ceremonial outfits and musical instruments. For me, the biggest surprise was an exhibit of contemporary Indian art, and I was totally astounded at wildly inventive and exotically colorful paintings that looked like Paul Gaugin in the South Seas. (We found out the hard way that if you lean in towards them too close, the motion detector alarms go off, and the guards come flying in at you from every direction.) There is also a wide-ranging reference library, with a variety of artifacts, books and media. It will come as a surprise to no one that I availed myself of their gift shop, and while I was aghast at the $400 turquoise necklaces, $100 tiny silver spoons and $600 glass paperweights, I still managed to get a decorative stuffed cat ornament, some postcards and a eucalyptus candle for Bill, all of which I thought was a steal at under $20.

The next part of our plan was to round up some knishes at a pretzel cart on the corner, especially when we found out that one of the young ladies from Pittsburgh, had never even heard of a knish. We walked for blocks past food carts on every corner, and none had knishes. We finally settled for pretzels, but it was just not the same thing at all. Then we found ourselves at Trinity Church St. Paul's Chapel, where they have a wonderful memorial exhibit about 9/11, as the building had been used for the feeding and comfort of rescue workers at Ground Zero, from the very beginning and throughout the recovery efforts. The Chapel was built in 1766 (it's obviously going to take more than terrorists to knock that thing down!) and features a display of George Washington's pew on one side, and on the other side, the pew of George Clinton, who was New York's first Governor in 1777, and Vice President under Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. From there, we walked along Broadway and noticed small streets off to the side had been closed to traffic, and set up with chairs and tables for restaurant patrons to dine al fresco. At Broadway and Liberty, is a small plaza with decorative benches, planters, architectural elements and tables with checkerboards on top. Anyone who's been watching the news lately knows what happened next, and even I was surprised that my bad luck jinx followed me all the way downtown and caused the Deutsche Bank building at Ground Zero to burst into flames, mere yards from where we were sitting, and summoning dozens of fire trucks with their sirens screaming, plus clouds of black smoke in every direction. Obviously, it was not my intention to jinx the Deutsche Bank building, and I felt bad about that, so I didn't take any pictures of it burning, which set me apart from everyone else in the neighborhood at the time, all using their cell phone cameras to capture this moment in history. I may be mean, but I'm not diabolical.

That was about all the excitement I could stand in one day, so I decided to pack it in and head for home. I spotted a nearby subway station, and was soon speeding back to Grand Central Terminal, which was subdued compared to the morning, and just in time to catch a train back to the suburbs. The trip home was quiet and uneventful, and it reminded me of something I had noticed earlier in the day, that unlike many other localities, New York City is one of the few places you can be with its own soundtrack playing all the time in the background of your visit. It seems that everywhere you go, on the subway platforms, at the parks, in the stores or even just out on the streets, there is always music playing all day long, and probably longer. It's like having your own theme music following you around for some extravagant imaginary Big Apple adventure movie, where you get to be the star, at least in your own mind. Like a lot of things, you don't really notice it until you get home and it's not there anymore, and you return to being just an ordinary nobody, instead of the Toast of Broadway. I suppose it's just as well, because something like that could easily go right to your head, and the last thing we need around here is another Queen of Mean, and I ought to know.

Cow Palace

Hello World,

Well, this has certainly been an eventful week, full of comings and goings and all manner of noteworthy items of note worth noting. This is especially notable for a long and boring month that actually has no events that it is famous for, or seasonal observances of any description. No, between Independence Day and Labor Day, there's just one big honking bunch of nothing, so that you would expect the poor greeting card companies to throw their hands up in despair. (Actually, what you would expect them to do is create a new holiday to fit in there, so people would go out and buy greeting cards and gifts and party decorations, which is the kind of gung-ho pioneer spirit that built this great land of the free and the home of the brave, amen.) In any case, there was certainly no lack of news, as we bid fond farewells to Merv Griffin, Phil Rizzuto and Brooke Astor, and even - gasp! - the Weekly World News, which wheezed out of circulation as well. George Steinbrenner said that Heaven must have needed a shortstop, and I figure he ought to know, but frankly, I never thought Brooke Astor was much of a fielder.

On the other side of the coin from shaking off this mortal coil, we had two arrivals recently, namely two dangerous weather systems (the government refers to them as "named storms" to differentiate them from your average garden-variety storms) called Erin and Flossie. I'm okay with Erin as a hurricane name, but I have to tell you that I draw the line at Hurricane Flossie, which is like the name of a rag-doll in a children's book, and has no business being a wanton force of nature capable of mass destruction on an epic scale. Some things just don't go together, no matter how much you may try, and Hurricane Flossie is one of them. It's sort of like a four-door sedan with a spoiler, only worse.

And what's going on these days in the wonderful wide world of wireless communications, you might be wondering, and well might you wonder. After almost exactly two years of the JACK format, fabled radio station 101.1 returned to its previous incarnation as WCBS-FM, playing exactly the same oldies as if they never left, to the delight of their devoted fans. Or did they? Cynics among us might notice some curious discrepancies. Even when the JACK format was in full swing, they retained the call letters of WCBS-FM, and regularly advertised the WCBS oldies station that you could access online to hear all your favorite old music. Now that WCBS is back at 101.1 as an oldies station, you can still go to the JACK web site (feel free to visit them at http://www.ilikejack.com/ and see for yourself) and they are still playing their mix of songs available online. Their web site invites you to listen to oldies at CBS-FM on the radio, and also visit their web site to listen online. The WCBS-FM web site also has links to the JACK web site, and lets you know where you can listen to them online. At the bottom of both home pages, big as life and just as brazen, is the name of the parent company, CBS Radio, the same for both. This is an "aha moment" for anyone who believed that these two formats were in competition with each other, and slugging it out for New York radio market share on behalf of two different owners. In fact, this calls into question the whole switch-over in the first place, which like New Coke, Old Coke and Classic Coke, might have been nothing more than a publicity stunt to attract attention and listeners in a contrived way. Since they owned both stations, and kept both running at the same time, there was no financial gamble to swap them out, which generated a media frenzy two years ago. Now they say the ratings for JACK were only so-so, and bringing back CBS-FM as an oldies station makes them look like heroes to legions of nostalgic fans. But for anyone with more than a passing knowledge of the pre-2005 CBS-FM, the differences are glaring. Early music from the 1950's is completely eliminated, as well as special programs that focused on particular musical styles, such as doo-wop and a cappella, so beloved by purists. Whole segments are pre-recorded (just like JACK) with no on-air personalities at all, and the playlist has gotten much more mainstream. A person can't help but wonder if this whole thing, right from the very beginning, was nothing more than an elaborate ruse on the part of CBS Radio, to re-format CBS-FM without anyone noticing it or complaining. Of course, noticing and complaining is my stock in trade, so if they were trying to sneak it past me, I've got news for them, and it's not good.

Speaking of good news, everyone in the local area can thank me for the gas prices coming down at the neighborhood pumps, because I finally got gas a couple of weeks ago. I had been watching the prices come down at the Sunoco station on the way home, and when it got to $3.19/gal for regular, I thought I should probably get in while the getting was good. By the time I got there on Thursday morning, it had come down even further to $3.16/gal, and I felt like a business tycoon filling up the tank at that rate. That lasted less than one day, because when I drove past the gas station LATER THAT SAME DAY, the same gas that I bought that morning was now selling for a mere $3.14/gal instead. Oh, thank you very much not! It has continued to creep down even further since then, and today when I went past, it was down to $3.04/gal and no end in sight. (In fact, when I was on Long Island last week, all of the stations were in the $2.90's everywhere I went.) So I am happy to accept everyone's thanks for bringing down the gas prices single-handedly, and glad to do it. After all, if it wasn't for my old friends, the dinosaurs, we wouldn't even have all of these fossil fuels to start with, and where would modern technology be then?

On that same subject, we all remember my recent technology challenges with a variety of computers and other gadgets, that defied all logic and even broke a few laws of nature. One of our alert readers (thanks, Jim!) sent along the following commentary:

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In your last e-mail you mentioned your watch running backwards, my swiss army watch did that very thing, I looked at the time just glancing at the minute hand I was happy with 10 after, a little while later I looked again and thought hey it can't be 5 of already then I realized it was off by 6 hours then I noticed the second hand was moving in the wrong direction. Took the battery out and popped it back in and for 3 minutes it ran correctly and then started running backwards again.
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By golly, you'd think at least the Swiss would have gotten the bugs worked out of this time-keeping business, after centuries of famous watch-making activities. Dare I suggest the darned Russkies and their infernal date machine might be behind all of this non-precision chronometry? (I was about to say that I just made that word up, but ironically found it right at the top of the page in my new college dictionary, so I obviously can't take credit for that coining.) It certainly gives a whole new meaning to "there's no time like the present."

In other news, we were all surprised in Purchasing when burly young men showed up during the week and replaced the carpet in the hallways on our floor and the floor above us. It's actually quite lovely carpet, and goes nicely with the new green-blue that we have as our door and baseboard trim, after years of somber dark brown all over. You would think that we'd be happy, but everyone knows there's no pleasing people nowadays, and that goes without saying. For as long as I've worked there, whenever anyone complained about Iselin Hall (which I believe was constructed of mud and straw as a Druid burial mound) management would wave it away saying, "Oh, there's no point in fixing up that building, they're just about to tear it down." So what if there's no heat, the toilets are broken, the fuses keep blowing, there's no elevator, the windows don't work, the ceilings are cracked? Not to worry, pretty soon they'll be tearing the building down anyway. Well, I've been hearing that for 20 years already, and Iselin Hall is standing in exactly the same place as when I started, and showing no signs of going anywhere. In fact, it couldn't help but be obvious to even the meanest intelligence that if they recently repainted all of our doors and baseboard trim, and now replaced all the carpet in the hallways, that far from tearing the building down, it would appear to have gained a new lease on life instead. At this rate, Iselin Hall will still be standing there, long after all of the other buildings have been replaced around it. Of course, the dinosaurs and I know better than to disturb a Druid burial mound, but I can't say for sure that's what the management is using as their motivation in this case. For all I know, the Russian's infernal date machine may have made their watches run backwards, and they're just waiting for the age of the Druids to come back again, which would have made a dandy story for the Weekly World News. Or in the immortal words of Brooke Astor, "Holy Cow!"

Under The Table

Hello World,

Well, there's no sense in my wishing you a happy anything, because I obviously have no idea what's going on around here, and that's putting it mildly. It took me a solid week to figure out that the witch doctors returned my computer with a new hard drive and new operating system set to, yes, the wrong date, no thank you very much not. I kept wondering why my scheduled tasks were happening on the wrong day, and my email was dated on days I knew I hadn't sent it. I have the system clock in my task bar, so I knew that was right, but I finally had to go into Control Panel, and soon uncovered the truth of the matter. So either the witch doctors set the system information to their own home country, on the other side of the international date line, or it's really true that the darned Russkies have finally developed their infernal date machine at long last.

Before you scoff, I would like to point out this date-related anomaly in the TV section of our local newspaper. The Food Network has a cooking program called "Emeril Live," presumably because it is exactly that, and in the listings for Sunday, August 5th, the topic for "Emeril Live" was "Recipes for Mother's Day." Hmmmm. Somehow I'm thinking, either the Russkies got to that show big time, or the "live" part of "Emeril Live" is not quite as live as they would like us to believe. And don't forget, I got a new computer with the wrong date, so I ought to know.

Meanwhile, in a different section of the newspaper, there was a big story by Greg Clary with the arresting headline: "We May Need To Adapt To Mutant Poison Ivy." And as Dave Barry always says, "I'm not making this up." In fact, I have documentary evidence going back many years, where I have been complaining about mutant poison ivy long and loud, and I don't mind saying, to no avail. And yet here is the newspaper's environmental writer explaining that by 2100, poison ivy will have "sucked up increasing amounts of carbon dioxide and morphed into a super weed," citing a "recent study that shows poison ivy to be the No. 1 beneficiary of climate change and of the increased carbon emissions that we're putting into our atmosphere." Well, I don't know about anywhere else, but it's certainly true in our yard, where the rampant alien mutant poison ivy is running amok, standing up in clumps in the middle of the yard and waving its menacing tentacles about in a provocative manner. If it gets any taller, the city will probably make us get a license for it, if not a Social Security number. In any case, the article goes on to quote a plant physiologist who says that the future will look pretty ugly if you're a person, but "if you're a rabbit or a deer, things are looking good. Poison ivy is one of their principle food sources." Now, I will admit that I am not a plant physiologist, and I don't even play one on television, but I'm about as well-versed in poison ivy as anybody, and this is the very first I'm hearing in my entire life that there are animals to whom poison ivy is a staple of their diet. I mean, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, or any other food source vehicle for that matter, and I would have expected this little informative tidbit to have turned up way before now, in any one of hundreds of articles about the local flora and fauna, especially hot button issues like invasive weeds and deer. And it seems to me, at least at our house, that the problem is not an excess of carbon dioxide, but a distinct shortage of rabbits to keep the noxious vines under control. Well, I for one, am not going to stand for it, and it goes without saying, I am unanimous in that. Or in the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, "Of course you realize, this means WAR!"

While we're on the topic of plants and people, we recently discovered yet another local landmark that is in danger of being obliterated by the implacable juggernaut of urban development. Of course, all of us staunch traditionalists and other assorted dinosaurs are aghast at the idea of replacing Shea Stadium with a new ballpark, but as if that wasn't bad enough, apparently the well-beloved "home run apple" is also going the way of the dodo, and will not be relocated to the new venue. For untold years, home runs at Shea have been celebrated, and the fans entertained, by a large shiny red apple rising slowly out of a black top hat, while the scoreboard exploded with animated apples, top hats and fireworks. With the center field fence at 408 feet, hitting one out of Shea is no mean feat, and the home run apple recognized this accomplishment with flash and pizzazz. Naturally, the Mets faithful are up in arms, and don't think they're taking this lying down, not by any means. In fact, you can feel free to go right ahead and check out their web page at http://savetheapple.com and see for yourself. While you're there, you can join all the rest of us dinosaurs in signing their petition, and apple-loving fans everywhere will thank you.

At our house, we file this next story under the category of "Why The Terrorists Hate Us" and with good reason. You know what Dave Barry always says, and he was not just whistling Dixie, or Rover, for that matter.

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THE PETSMOBILITY PETSCELL

Chatting with your dog while you're away just got easier.
With a new innovative product from Scottsdale,
Ariz.-based PetsMobility, you can now put your
pooch on speed-dial. The PetsCell, a cell-phone
designed especially for pets, has a two-way speaker
function and attaches right to your dog's collar,
ensuring that he's always available to take your call!
The PetsCell costs $499, plus a one-time activation
fee and monthly network fees.
www.petsmobility.com
============================

Well, that just about says it all, and all by itself. Also speaking for itself, we have the following exchange of email messages between our Director of Admitting, and the service department responsible for repairing one of our embossing machines.

Dispatcher: "The cost of the replacement display is $835.00 plus tax if you are taxable."

Admitting: "Please order the part for us. I will call you when I have the check and we are non-table."

Now, it would be all too easy for me to poke fun at this exchange (settle down, dinosaurs!) but there's no escaping the reality of the situation, no matter how you look at it. The Admitting Director was right on the mark when she said we are non-table, because after all, the fact of the matter is that we're a hospital and not a table, and that's the plain truth of it. In fact, I was going to give her a call, but I ended up calling the neighbor's dog instead. It turned out Freckles didn't know what day it was either, and he doesn't even have a cooking show. I'd love to keep trying to pin this down, but the IRS just showed up about unpaid back taxes owed by our rampant alien mutant poison ivy, and I have to assure them that our poison ivy is non-table. After all, I work at a hospital, so I ought to know.

Head Shrinker

Hello World,

Happy August! Although this is certainly the time of year for the weather gods to "release the hounds," it still seems early in the month for the fabled "dog days of August," and personally, I'm with the Baja Men in wondering, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" But you can believe me that they are certainly out in force here in the local area, and barking up a storm, with sweltering temperatures and oppressive humidity that would absolutely not make anyone want to hum-a-ditty, and that's putting it mildly.

So here it is August, and what better time to trot out once again, one of my favorite sports poems of all-time? By way of introduction, the Busch family has been famous throughout many generations, not only for their breweries, but also as owners of sports teams such as the St. Louis Cardinals. This little bit of doggerel was written by a New York Knicks fan and sent to Sports Illustrated circa 1972:

August was Busch
But Dave was
DeBusschere

Well, I don't see any way to improve upon that. And since it's August, and so is he, we could go right ahead and call him Augie Doggie Busch, and see how we've come full circle back to the dog days once again. And I don't mind saying, you're welcome to them.

For people who were wondering, I will say that this was a better week at work than last week, although not due to any improvement in staffing, which would have been ideal, if far-fetched. But after two weeks of doing two jobs at once, I got a better handle on things and everything seemed a lot more under control. I also completed the preliminary phase of my third job, which was clearing out the spare office for our new alien resident, so she could move her own furniture and belongings in, and now have only the closet left to do, which can wait for another time. Luckily I had already put away the Christmas tree, or we'd be re-visiting that wandering holiday paraphernalia all over again. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

Another improvement over last week was a reduction in the amount of people who crawled out of the woodwork and made pests of themselves by calling or coming over with the most ridiculous problems, questions and commentary, when I really had no time to deal with them and even less patience. It's one thing for co-workers not to be of any help at all, but I draw the line when they instead turn into the biggest obstacles to my progress. I don't know if it was the pile of shrunken heads in the corner of my office that finally put them off, or the Fates took pity on me at long last, but their productivity impediments really slacked off this week, compared to last week. Actually, in some ways it was too bad, because I think with just three more shrunken heads, I would have had enough to trade them in on a toaster oven, and now I'll probably be stuck with the travel alarm clock instead.

Meanwhile on the home front, the witch doctors waved their chicken bones and palm fronds over my computer, and pronounced it DOA with no hope of recovery. The hard drive seemed to have developed a bad sector, which rendered the operating system, well, a non-operating system, I suppose. A full-scale disaster was only narrowly averted, thanks to two factors. One is that most of my older data files, documents, pictures and music were already on my secondary drive, which was being used for storage since it's bigger than my primary drive, so they were in no danger of being lost or corrupted. The other, of course, was Bill, who is not always recognized as a technical genius but should be, who attached my old bad drive to his portable hard drive and was able to recover my current files off of it, bypassing the disabled operating system altogether. He was not only worlds better than the witch doctors with their rattles and entrails, but besides that, the price was certainly right. He may be worth his weight in gold, but in the current economic climate, he may have to settle to a handful of shrunken heads instead.

Unfortunately, the only cure for a broken hard drive is a new hard drive, which can be a real improvement in terms of size and performance, but as everyone knows, the problem with a new drive is that it comes completely blank. It's nice to have all of your documents safe and secure, but without any programs to use them with, the computer's functionality is about on a par with the federal government. (Oh, hit that easy target!) I was glad that the witch doctors sent my computer back running Windows XP, but that was it, and there wasn't even Windows Office or anything else installed. Anyone who's ever been through this, and our name is legion, knows that loading software can be a hit-or-miss proposition at best, and at worst, well, a pile of shrunken heads would only be the beginning. I spent all of one day installing software with mixed results, mostly because of outdated programs that I still like, but which are no longer supported by their companies, if in fact, the companies still exist. (One of my quaint older programs was trying to submit my registration electronically to their headquarters, and instead, woke up some poor little old lady in Dubuque!) What ends up happening for the most part is that you take one step forward and two steps backward, as each new program either runs or doesn't run, or even worse, makes the program ahead of it that had been running, suddenly stop running for no reason. After a whole day like that, where you spend most of your time waiting for your computer to reboot for the umpteenth time, you really start to question whether technology is just another way of the gods toying with us.

Friday night after dinner, I was planning to make some real headway in restoring my files and documents back to their original configuration, so I could get back to using my computer for actual work instead of just fiddling with it. That was my plan anyway, and I'm sure it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon of this scenario, not by any means. It had been beastly hot and miserably humid all day, and although it had been beautifully clear, no one would have been surprised to hear thunder rolling in after dark, and the pitter-patter of rain on the window screens. The surprise came a while later, when the floodgates opened up, the rain came pelting down in sheets, and ushered in the mother and father of all thunderstorms, with pounding hail, bolts of lightning everywhere, and booming thunderclaps that shook the house to its foundations. The cats fled in terror under the furniture, in spite of being grizzled veterans of the streets, which tells you something about this storm right there. I got on the floor in the living room trying to calm down RaggMopp, who was hunkered down under a table and panting in wide-eyed panic, when the lights flickered. I jumped up and saved what I had been working on at my computer, but I wasn't worried. The lights flickered again, and then a few more times after that, and then they went out for good. It was 10:15, and we were going to be in for a long hot night of it. Somewhere far away, the technology gods were laughing their heads off. Little, tiny shrunken heads, I'll bet you.

Luckily we have a rechargeable flashlight close at hand, so I was able to see my way around to close things up and put stuff out of the way before going upstairs. The rain did nothing to cool anything down, and I'll tell you, for two people who had been looking forward to air conditioning all day, trying to sleep under those conditions had nothing to recommend it. In fact, anyone who invents a battery-powered air conditioner has my vote for President of these United States, sight unseen. Later, it occurred to me how lucky we are that indoor plumbing is one of very few things in modern life that has never been improved with the addition of electricity, or other enhancements that rely on technology to function. Toilets are entirely mechanical in operation, while sinks utilize the power of gravity for their purposes, and at times like Friday night, this is something that we should truly rejoice about. Unlike electricity, which can be a sometimes thing, at least we never have to worry about an interruption of gravity, because even the technology gods, blast their tiny little shrunken heads, can't pull that one off. After a couple of weeks like I've had, I realize we should all be grateful for small favors, and the fact that we are all safe from the effects of a "gravity blackout" has just gone right to the top of my list of things to be grateful for. Without it, I'd be picking that pile of shrunken heads off the ceiling of my office instead, and heaven knows, I don't have time for that.

Bad News Travels Fast

Hello World,
Who would have believed that we'd be just about staring August in the face, with nothing but scant days left before we're really scraping the bottom of the barrel of July, and I don't mind saying, nothing to show for it. I came back from 10 days of vacation to find the unthinkable had happened at work. After it took a year to hire a new clerk to replace our retired co-worker, it took only 10 months to lose her, as she was re-allocated to a different department, and we were left with an empty office and only our memories to console us. Even worse, another employee was re-located to Purchasing from another department, who is not doing the clerk's job, and insisted that we clear out one of the spare offices for her to use, after turning up her nose at the clerk's office, which had the advantage of already being empty. It turned into a rather challenging week for me, not only trying to do two jobs, but then being saddled with a third job as well, which was moving everything out of the spare office to accommodate this interloper in our midst. It was in the middle of this that my computer at home stopped working, no thank you not very much, and I dragged out the emergency back-up computer, only to find that it was having its own issues, and ended up being less than no help. Then the computer in my office stopped working, and it got to the point where I was afraid to touch anything else, for fear of the consequences. I realized that I should steer clear of electronic equipment when I noticed that my watch had started running backwards, and I said to Bill that I didn't dare watch the Mets.
Speaking of July, we have just enough time left to point out some notable dates, courtesy of Joseph J. Cusimano, and please feel free to review all the copious details on my web log at graphicmagicmailbags.blogspot.com under the title of Jolly July. Of course, we're all aware of Independence Day on July 4th in 1776, and perhaps even the deaths of Thomas Jefferson and John Adams in 1826, but the day also boasts the start of the Erie Canal excavation in 1817 and Lou Gehrig's speech at Yankee Stadium in 1939. On the 6th, the first baseball All-Star game was played in 1933, and George W. Bush was born in 1946. The week after that obviously had nothing to recommend it throughout hundreds of years of international history, because there is nothing on the list from the 6th to the 11th, when we have the death of Alexander Hamilton in 1804 and the Tri-Boro Bridge opening in 1936. The 17th and 28th have four items listed on each day, while Bastille Day is all by its lonesome on the 14th, and the only noteworthy event on the 31st is the dedication of Idlewild Airport in 1948. (For everyone who hasn't been living in the New York metro area since 1948, this is now more commonly known by everyone else in the whole world as JFK. Alas, poor Idlewild, I knew him well.) Meanwhile, cheek-by-jowl on the 29th, we have the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588 and the 1942 opening of Bruckner Boulevard in the Bronx. So now we know there's more to July than spangled stars and fireworks, not to mention, purple mountains majesty, amber waves of grain and oceans white with foam, as well as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Seriously, who could ask for anything more?
I'm sure all of you flag-wavers out there, and don't think I don't know who you are, will be relieved to hear that Bill took pity on the poor upstairs flag bracket, and replaced all of the puny mangled nails with a bunch of solid, no-nonsense screws instead, and with plenty of time to spare before the next occasion that calls for Old Glory to be flying above the ramparts, rockets red glare and all that. So that's one less thing to worry about, and the spirit of Betsy Ross can rest in peace, God bless her, and long may she wave.
Before my computer at home went on the fritz, I was surprised to receive an elaborately designed piece of junk email with the arresting subject line: "Google Home Business Kit Trail Offer." Why, dad-gum it, Tex, let's round up them doggies and mosey along the old Google Trail, yee-hah! Interestingly (although perhaps only interesting to linguistic sticklers like me and the rest of the dinosaurs) the remainder of the message seemed to be about a trial offer and had nothing to do with trails whatsoever. Even more interesting, or perhaps intriguing would be the better term, was their disclaimer, which read: "We hope you enjoyed receiving this but if you no longer want to, write to Central Hygiene, 55 Jericho Turnpike, Jericho, NY 11753." Central Hygiene??? What the heck kind of name is that for anything?! I get chest pains just thinking about what a place called Central Hygiene could be doing for a living. Ouch.
Also not up for a nomination in the Technology Vanguard Awards is this curious gambit from our friends at http://v2.decipherinc.com, where Bill was taking one of their online surveys:
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Have you used the Internet in the past 30 days?Please select one response:
Yes
No
Don't know
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Unless this is some special ESP survey which the respondents answer telepathically, it would appear that the logical answer to this would be the only possible one. And for people to say they "don't know" if they've used the Internet lately is sort of like saying they "don't know" if they're married or not. This really isn't something that just sneaks up on anyone unawares and takes advantage of them without their knowledge, which is not to say that Bill Gates has not been trying to do exactly that for years (not the marriage part maybe) and may yet succeed. But I have to consider it fundamentally flawed when a survey question has three answers that are (1) precisely wrong, (B) insanely stupid, and (iii) so self-evident as to render the entire question moot. And don't forget, my watch is running backwards, so I ought to know.
After a week like this, you might expect that it would take a better person than myself not to crack under the strain, and you'd be right on the mark. In fact, I was coming home yesterday after a particularly frustrating day at work, and got cut off in a busy intersection by one of those gigantic articulated buses turning left directly in front of me. I let him go, but after that, I was getting through that intersection or know the reason why. You can believe me that you wouldn't have wanted to be the guy behind him, who also tried to turn left in front of me, but he took one look at the cracked and raggedy front bumper on the Escort (not to mention the fact that my head was spinning around in circles on my shoulders, with green stuff shooting out of my mouth) and realized that he really didn't want all that busted navy blue plastic all over his shiny silver doorstop, and he stopped right in his tracks. He didn't know how lucky he was, because the way things were going, I just needed to reach out my hand and touch his car, and all of the electronics in it would have been shot to Kingdom Come. Oh sure, he might have been able to get Bill Gates to fix it, but he probably would have had to marry him first.