Pseudo Science

Hello World,

Happy June! Our first roses have just opened, as well as the flowering almond and mountain laurel, and pretty soon all of the summer flowers will be in full swing, so you know that we will be well and truly on our way to the middle of the year and no looking back. We finally had a week that was consistently warm and sunny the entire time, with no crazy temperature fluctuations or unseasonable conditions for a change, and a welcome one at that. Even a freak storm that came out of nowhere with its booming thunder, lightning, high winds and hail was mercifully brief, and soon cleared up as quickly as it had come. After the kind of funky spring weather that we've been having lately, it was certainly a nice change of pace to bask in the balmy sunshine and radiant blue skies that would be a sure-fire tonic for whatever ails you. Honestly, instead of wasting their time studying sub-atomic particles, the scientists should find a way to encapsulate spring into a pill form, because that would be all it would take to turn the whole world into a much more cheerful place. They could sign me up for a life-time prescription right now.

Monday was Memorial Day, of course, and a glorious day it was, too. Around here, we had the flags flying upstairs and downstairs, and the flag brigade even remembered to take in the flags later, which is not something that can be taken for granted, since the flag brigade tends to suffer from what we call at work "Sometimers" disease. That is, that sometimes you remember, and sometimes you forget, but when it comes to the flags, it seems to be forgotten more often than not, so this was a red-letter day for the flag brigade. Not resting on our laurels, the 30th is traditional Memorial Day, so we also flew the flags on Friday for all of the traditionalists out there, and our name is legion, at least around here, and I don't mind saying that I am unanimous in that. Once again, the flag brigade managed to both put the flags out in the morning, and bring them back in the evening, and since we require no more than that, it was another job well done, and twice in one week, almost beyond belief. Which is just as well, since the scientists are busy studying sub-atomic particles instead of inventing an automatic flag-flying device that puts the flags out on holidays and takes them back in again, so we have no choice but to rely on our flag brigade, however unreliable that may be, and no thanks to science very much not.

Of course, we don't want to just pick on science, because sometimes it's math that lets us down instead. Our friends at Quad Entertainment (please feel free to visit their web site at www.quadentmusic.com and see for yourself) distributed invitations to the 2008 Classic R&B Summer Fest at the County Center in July, with pictures of their featured artists to be appearing in the show. Included are such performers as Sharon Paige, Freddie Jackson, The New Stylistics and Touch of New York. I admit that I am not familiar with many of these acts, but then I've never been a big R&B maven, so I'm not a good judge of this sort of thing. I couldn't help but notice one of the pictures was for a group called Ray, Goodman & Brown, and you can call me a hidebound traditionalist (don't you dare!) but I was surprised to see four young men in this quartet, while their name would lead me to expect them to be a trio instead. Perhaps the fourth fellow is the "&" part of Ray, Goodman & Brown, but I consider it a dark day in music when people can't figure out that if there are four members of a singing group, they should either all be in the group's name, or change it to Ray & Friends or something a little more inclusive. I can't help but feel that poor nobody that they left out is going to get a complex, and probably give up singing the blues altogether. Next thing you know, he'll be studying sub-atomic particles with the rest of the losers.

If we're already at the last Saturday in May, whatever happened to my sister Linda's world famous Memorial Day weekend BBQ, alert readers may be wondering, and well may they wonder. The 36th annual BBQ went off without a hitch, and a fine time was had by all, plus beautiful weather for all three days. Dozens of friends and acquaintances from all over the world descend on the sleepy town of Stone Ridge in upstate New York, for the food and drinks, fun and games, not to mention, for old time's sake and a chance to recapture the memories of BBQ's gone by. I was there on Saturday with my sister Diane, having a wonderful time and enjoying the convivial company, and it goes without saying that I have the pictures to prove it. Of course, nowadays you can't believe anything you see in pictures anyway, because Bill could take that picture and make it look as if I was standing there in broad daylight with Paris Hilton and Orson Welles, not to mention, Bob Barker and Sasquatch, so in terms of credibility, these digital pictures are about on a par with used car salesmen or politicians. In fact, I asked my sister to "paste" me into the group photo that would be taken on Sunday or Monday when I wasn't there, so that I would be included in the official record of attendees, and not overlooked just because I was there on Saturday instead. It's perfectly alright, because there's a standard scientific principle that applies to situations just like this. I believe the technical term for it is "lying."

Speaking of technical terms, alert readers of the hospital computer system would have been in for a shock last week with the posting of this arresting message: "PLEASE SIGN OFF YOUR TERMINALS BY 7:00 PM. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SIGN ON AGAIN. YOU WILL BE TERMINATED." Boy, talk about "hasta la vista, baby!" Obviously, the minions in our computer department have had enough of us ignoring them all the time, and they're not going to put up with any crap from the rest of us anymore. In healthcare, we call this: Geeks Got Game. I don't know about anyone else, but I certainly know better than to mess with the Nerdinators, and they don't have to tell me twice to sign off and stay off, that's for sure.

And while we're on the subject of things we shouldn't mess with, we come naturally to yard work, where the Women's Amateur Landscaping Team (that's me, and please don't try to hire me, because I don't want to jeopardize my amateur standing) puts in long hours of hard labor in an attempt to make our property look more like actual respectable people live here, and not a bunch of vagrants in an abandoned building. I had already made some incremental progress on cleaning up twigs and branches, clearing out piles of debris left over from the winter, and sweeping up dead leaves stuck in the corners of our porches and steps. With the warmer weather, the weeds had really gotten out of hand, so I knew the time had come to take some strong measures, before the flower beds would be a lost cause. On the top walk is where we have our rosebushes, bird feeders and bird baths, and since the spring flowers had already died back, everything else there is pretty much weeds, making it easy to identify what needs to come out. So there I was on Monday, on my hands and knees with my trusty clippers, and I would just grab a handful of whatever wasn't a rosebush or left-over daffodils, and cut it off. It went pretty quick, and cleared out a lot of space between what was supposed to be there and what wasn't. I wasn't surprised to find our wisteria and porcelain berry running amok everywhere, but even I got tired of this scenario, where I would find myself saying, "I'll have this corner all cleaned out, once I reach that last little clump right over there ... say, where did that poison ivy come from?" After that, "Now this patch is finished, I can move over by the fountain ... by golly, it's more poison ivy." Then it was, "I can pull out everything behind this last rosebush ... oh, and of course, it's poison ivy." It was like a bad sitcom, where every time I cut out the weeds in front of something, it exposed all the poison ivy behind it, and no matter how many times it happened, it was still like a bad sight gag each time. I was half-expecting Fonzie to show up in this garden variety sitcom, although ALF would probably be more in line with what they're watching on the planet where my rampant mutant alien poison ivy comes from, I'm thinking.

Meanwhile at church, the time had surely come, in fact it was long since past, that we needed to have the pew cushions replaced, because they were all torn and tattered, with the buttons falling off and the stuffing leaking out all over the place. Mind you, this is with very light usage, because so few people come to our church that you would expect the cushions to look brand new, instead of something you might find in a Bowery flop-house. We got in touch with the company which made the cushions in the first place, and they agreed to replace them at a nominal charge, and although I had signed up to be the contact person and meet the truck driver picking up the cushions, unfortunately, they decided to do this while I was at the Metro New York Synod Assembly all day for three days, and so I couldn't be there to open the doors when the truck arrived. As a result, I was just as surprised as everybody else, when I turned up at church the following Sunday and found no pew cushions, and by golly, there's nothing like sitting for hours on rock-hard wooden pews, for all of us Calvinists trying to build character the old-fashioned way. (And here I mean, by suffering, although I suppose "from the bottom up" works just as well under the circumstances.) I can state without fear of contradiction that this is no way to attract people to your church, in fact, I would expect it to have the effect of keeping them away in droves, because you can't imagine how uncomfortable it is, and I don't mind saying, even with the pew cushions, it wasn't all that comfortable to start with. I have to admit though, even worse than sitting is trying to stand up, and one problem with liturgical worship is that you're forever sitting and standing and sitting and standing, it just goes on and on like that all morning, so you don't dare hold anything on your lap, or you'd be forever picking it up off the floor each time. Without the 3-inch cushion that's normally under you, trying to get to your feet from one of these naked benches is like climbing out of a low-slung sports car, and you keep looking around for a handle or something to pull yourself up with. This is no one's idea of church for sissies, believe me, and after a few more weeks of this, we'll all start to look like the Lutheran version of a lower-body workout video. We could call it "Heavenly Bodies," and "pew ups" would be just one of the many fitness routines available. No, please don't thank me, I'm just glad to be part of a world where we can all enjoy better living through science.

It's In The Bag

Hello World,

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire ..... That old Christmas song from bygone holidays may seem woefully out of place six months later, but if you or anyone you know happens to have a chestnut tree in the yard, you would certainly be singing its praises long and loud right about now. All of the chestnut trees in our neighborhood are putting on a show, and even the creaky 100-year-old specimen across the street looks better than ever. Whatever we didn't like about the dreadful spring weather, it's obvious that the chestnuts lapped it right up, and was just what the doctor ordered for towering displays of blooms from top to bottom. In fact, so far the only thing I can think of that didn't do well in this terrible weather lately would be carpenter ants, which we usually find wandering aimlessly around our house in May, looking for whatever ants go looking for, and just making a general nuisance of themselves. We haven't seen one yet, and it's not as a result of any defensive measures on our part, believe me, so either the ants have moved on to greener pastures, or they're still huddled in their burrows waiting for actual spring weather to arrive, and not just on the calendar.

Frankly, I don't hold out much hope for this note, because although I did come back safe and sound from last week's Metro New York Synod Assembly at the Marriott in scenic Tarrytown, I'm sure it was with way fewer brain cells, after being cooped up with 500 grouchy Lutherans for three days. But first, let me highly recommend the Marriott, which is not only extremely large, but also full of amenities for the weary traveler and visitors alike. When you walk in the front door to their sumptuous lobby, you think if you keep going straight ahead, you should wind up at the registration desk, but not so, because that is where they have located the cafe bar instead, where you can get a wide variety of snacks and drinks. The registration desk is tucked in the corner off to the right, and they also have what I would call a rudimentary gift shop next to it, with a curious assortment of items. The first day, I had a chance to poke around a bit and take some pictures, because I got there before time to register for the Assembly, and the first plenary session wasn't until after lunch. But after that, they really kept our noses to the grindstone, starting at 7:00 AM and going on even after dinner, so I didn't have time to do any more exploring. One thing you don't have to explore for, however, is the pool, which is located handily right in the lobby, in a central atrium with the rest of the hotel built around it, and it's just about the most decorative thing, full of lush plants, patio furniture, umbrellas, quiet walkways and cozy nooks. There's also a Jacuzzi off to one side, as well as carts full of towels and pool toys. Whenever you walk through the hallways, you can't help but notice the windows that look over what appears to be a tropical paradise, and it's right in the middle of the hotel.

The Assembly was taking place in one of the ballrooms, and after a day of staring at the platform where the leaders were running the sessions, it occurred to me that this was about the ugliest place we've ever had one of these events. Usually, the room has a stage or dais, with a plain but nice looking velvet curtain behind it, and some decorative wall fixtures or something to make it look attractive. This place was the most horrible yellowish-tan color, and nothing whatever behind the platform except for those fold-out doors that they have in schools to divide a big room into smaller rooms. For a snazzy place like the Marriott, this room was a real dud, although it might have been the red-haired freckle-faced step-child of ballrooms, and the other ones might have been beautiful, but we'll never know. On the other side of the ballroom, they have a wonderful pub, which is handy because there is nowhere nearby to eat, as well as one of those famous Ruth's Chris Steak Houses, right in the hotel. For people attending the Assembly, we had nothing to worry about, because meals were included in our registration fee, in fact, you had no choice but to pay for the meals, whether you wanted them or not. Some of us might call that "food-ation without representation," but our protests would have been in vain.

The person who would have been our current Bishop left that job in February to accept another position with the national headquarters in Chicago, so the Assembly was in the hands of our interim Bishop, David Olson, who seemed like a nice personable older man, with a calm and affable way about him and even traces of humor. We began with an opening worship service, and while I may complain about grouchy Lutherans, by golly, they sure can sing, and I ought to know, because I threw out my voice trying to drown out the people around me, and not succeeding. I happened to be sitting next to a pastor from a church in Syosset, and he said he was getting ready to retire, as soon as he figured out where to retire to. I said, "Look around. It's obvious that retired pastors don't go anywhere, because every year, you find them showing up at the Assembly just the same as always." He laughed, but it's really true that the Assembly is like an old age home for retired pastors.

We were invited to a meeting on the proposed budget at the ungodly hour of 7:00 AM on Friday morning, with the enticement that breakfast would be served upstairs in the Westchester Terrace overlooking the pool, and they went on to point out that if we didn't care for the numbers on the budget, we could always throw ourselves over the balcony and fall in the pool. It turned out that the budget passed without controversy, which is a first in my experience, so whatever they served at that breakfast, it must have done the trick. At one point, someone asked a question about the budget amount for the Bishop's salary, and the treasurer pointed out that whoever is elected Bishop gets the same salary that they were getting as a regular church pastor, there is no extra money for being Bishop, which he said, he wanted to make sure all of the candidates were aware of this. That got a big laugh, which is a major change from the name-calling and throwing things of previous budget discussions that I've been involved in, that's for sure.

The big business of this Assembly would be electing a new Bishop, although I didn't see how they could do that and still get through the resolutions on the agenda, which always seem to deteriorate into hours of nit-picking, arguments and interminable amendments that just bring the entire proceedings to a standstill. It turns out that I need not have worried, because the powers-that-be apparently wised up in the meantime, and railroaded through some rule changes that made the whole process a breeze. There was a 2-minute limit on each speaker who wanted to address the resolutions, and a 10-minute limit on debate of each resolution, including amendments, so we tore through the whole bunch of them in next to no time. This was the complete opposite of my first experience at an Assembly in 2002, where they spent an agonizing three hours arguing about prayer, of all things. (PRAYER!!!) They also managed to keep all mention of the Human Sexuality Task Force off the agenda, which is the current bugaboo bedeviling the national organization and driving a wedge between differing factions everywhere across the country, and within our Synod in particular. Usually, the resolutions take up most of the time during the Assembly, so in a lot of ways, this was an entirely different animal altogether.

Without the resolutions to take up all of our time, what could we possibly do at the Assembly for three days, you might be wondering. Fear not! They kept tossing presentations at us, every time we thought we could take a break and stretch our legs, here was someone else being introduced, to whom we were supposed to pay attention and applaud politely. There were greetings from other Synods. There was a video message from Bishop Mark Hanson at ELCA headquarters in Chicago. The President of the Lutheran Seminary in Philadelphia made a speech, as well as Dr. Benke on behalf of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod. It just went on and on and on, until I thought I was back at the Secretary's Day luncheon, with their boring speeches and proclamations. Young people from the Lutheran Youth Organization put on a skit, which was actually pretty funny, and it occurred to me that the Patient Satisfaction Team at the hospital could learn a thing or two from these youngsters. I applauded politely so many times that I thought my hands would fall off.

So when another presentation came along, in honor of our sister Synod in Tanzania, I frankly thought nothing of it. There was to be an Affirmation of Companion Covenant between the two Synods on the 10th anniversary of the original Covenant, and included the Tanzanian Bishop and his entourage, plus representatives from our Synod headquarters in New York City. Suddenly, out of the blue and without any fanfare, here was our previous Bishop, Stephen P. Bouman, who had signed the original Covenant in 1998, and came in all the way from Chicago just to attend the ceremony for the new Affirmation. When people caught sight of him on the platform, it brought the house down, and believe me, he could have been re-elected Bishop on the spot in a landslide. The Tanzanian entourage included a steel drum band, and between the ceremony, and the gifts, and the rollicking music, it was probably the highlight of the Assembly for most of us. Because this presentation was at night after dinner, and it turned out there was no other business to conduct, I really didn't want to stay and have to drive home in the dark, but seeing Bishop Bouman tear the roof off of that place, honestly, I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Meanwhile, the business of electing a new Bishop was a tedious affair that stretched over all three days, in a process that many of us would agree has ample room for improvement. It begins with the first ballot, where you can write in the name of any old anybody on the ELCA roster of ministers, no matter who they are or where they're from, regardless of whether they would even want to be our Bishop, or if it would come as a hugely unwelcome surprise for them to be nominated. So you get the results the next day, with about 50 different people listed, most of whom only get one or two votes, and most of them go running up to the platform to fill out a form having themselves removed from consideration, before things start to get out of hand. (Someone voted for the interim Bishop Olson, who had already been a retired Bishop from another Synod, and he said he filled out his removal form so fast, it would make our heads spin.) The top vote getter was a bigwig at Synod headquarters with 96 votes, followed by another Synod bigwig at 48 votes, and since 500 votes were cast, you can see how it trailed off into bunches of nobodies after that. The second ballot narrows it down further, and by the next afternoon, they invite the top 7 candidates to make a 5-minute speech about their qualifications and principles. Unfortunately, you have to remember these are pastors, who are all blessed (?) with the gift of gab, so none of them could manage to finish within the 5-minute time limit, and were all unceremoniously cut off by the moderator. The next day, the top 3 candidates answer questions on the platform, and included the two Synod bigwigs that had been leading from the beginning, and in a surprise development, an older man who was a retired Bishop from another Synod and recently relocated to New York as pastor of a church in Manhattan. Even the vote after that was too close for a winner, so that left just the top two to slug it out head to head on the final ballot. The results looked like this:

Robert Rimbo - 236
Robert Wollenburg - 232
Total votes cast - 468
Votes needed to elect - 235

So it turned out that the dark horse, the older retired Bishop from nowhere, squeaked past the Synod honcho that we all figured had the inside track, with exactly one vote more than the minimum needed to be elected. After that, it took a lot of the steam out of the Assembly, and many people skipped lunch to go home early and didn't come back for the closing worship service on Saturday afternoon.

A big difference at this Assembly from every other one I can remember (and don't forget, I have notes!) was that it was consistently hot the whole time, even in different rooms. This is in stark contrast to the Rye Town Hilton in 2004 [[ I think the only thing that prevented actual fist-fights was the fact that the ballroom was consistently at a temperature of about 30 degrees below zero, and if anyone had really thrown a punch at someone, their fist would have just fractured into tiny little slivers and disintegrated in icy shards on the floor. ]] or St. Peter's in 2005 [[ St. Peter's had erected a series of enormous tents outside, which turned out to be for the registration and meals. Considering that it was 60 degrees and raining, the idea of eating outside didn't really have a lot of appeal. ]] and certainly unexpected by those of us who consider ourselves battle-scarred Assembly veterans. The biggest difference was without Bishop Bouman, it was a lot less entertaining, and really made the three days drag by. Bishop Bouman has a wealth of charisma and enthusiasm, and there was always a lot of kidding around and high spirits, even in the midst of the most adversarial exchanges on hot button issues. (His interplay with Pr. Amandus Derr, who was Synod Council President, was referred to by insiders as "The Steve and Mandy Show" and with good reason.) It was incredible to me that the Mets and Yankees were playing a series together in the Bronx at this same time, without a word being mentioned about it at the Assembly, not even a single peep throughout. This never could have happened during Bouman's tenure, where Mets and Yankees hats were as much a part of the proceedings as stoles and crucifers, and the good-natured rivalry of fans in competing camps was an expected and welcome diversion to the thornier issues at hand. I give Bishop Olson high marks for being a calm and steadying influence in the midst of turmoil, but he's no showman, and that's a plain fact.

So that's about how things went at this year's Assembly, and I did in fact live to tell the tale, and returned home none the worse for wear, although no doubt with considerably fewer brain cells than I had before I went there. Bill thinks we should call our new Bishop-elect RAMBO, instead of Rimbo, which would likely have the effect of making people sit up and take notice, and let them know that Lutherans are not to be trifled with. Or as Richard Crenna so famously remarked in one of the Rambo movies, "You're going to need more body bags."

Cat In The Hat

Hello World,

Well, I'm sure that nobody wants to hear about the local weather lately, which has not only been nothing to write home about, and I ought to know, but also manages to lack interest for strangers, by falling short of being indescribably bad. In fact, it would be very easy to describe, and you can try this at home as an experiment for yourself. First, sit in a dark room all morning. Then go into a lighter room, but sit in front of a fan blowing at high speed. Next, stand in the bathtub and throw a bucket of cold water over yourself, and then go back to sitting in front of the fan. Repeat. Congratulations! You've just replicated last week's regional weather, right in the comfort of your own home, and I'm sure that you didn't like it any better than we did. On the other hand, not complaining about the weather is more of our yard flowers, including our wonderfully fragrant phlox, giant allium, and even lily of the valley, all of which I expected to be later, but here they are already. We have two different kinds of pointy white flowers, star flowers and also Star of Bethlehem, and they're both open and a welcome sight. Everyone's azaleas are doing great and ours are no exception, while the wisteria is turning everything lavender, everywhere that it rambles. As Bill says, with everything busting out all over, who needs June?

Elsewhere on the home front, I apparently spoke too soon about the juvenile delinquent squirrels in our yard not digging up the flowers in my planters, because last week they did just that. I had to chase around after my impatiens and mini roses, which were all scattered about, then pick them up and dust them off, and replant them back in the containers, all the while hoping for better results the second time around. If only those pesky squirrels would dig up the poison ivy or dandelions, or God forbid, the darned garlic mustard, instead of things that I actually want, they would at least earn their keep around here instead of just being juvenile delinquents. Oh well, everyone knows that I always say this is how we know we haven't all died and gone to heaven, because things are not perfect. In an odd development, of the two mini roses that I got, one opened up as pale pink, which is consistent with how the buds looked, and the other one turned out to be purple, which is a color I certainly don't expect to find in roses. After being roughed up by the local wildlife, I don't know if they're going to survive at this point, but right now I have a pink and a purple in my garden. Meanwhile, the Knockout rose in the bucket seems to be doing very well, so I'm cautiously optimistic that I can camouflage the "rosebush graveyard" section of the garden with something decorative over the summer.

As if things weren't hectic enough at work, this week I decided to take off three days, so I hold out no hope for next week at all, and the following week is only four days, so it will probably take me the entire month of June to get caught back up to where I should have been. Two of those days off were for the 2008 Assembly for the Metro New York Synod, and there's nothing like being surrounded by 500 grouchy Lutherans to really make you question your sanity, such as it is. But the day before the Assembly started, I had a completely different adventure.

It all started innocently enough, as these things so often do, when I got this note from the daughter of a friend in Oregon, who had relocated east while taking graduate courses in New York City:

=========================
I am writing to invite you and Bill to watch me walk across a stage in a silly hat!

As a January 2008 graduate of NYU with my M.A., I am entitled to participate in NYU's May 2008 Commencement and graduation activities, to be held on the morning of Wednesday May 14. The Graduate School's Convocation is a mini-graduation at which each student's name and degree are announced.
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Well, anyone who knows me can tell you that I couldn't pass up an invitation like that, so I told her that I would be there with bells on, and looking forward to it. So early Wednesday morning, I left my car at work and dashed down the block to the train station (somehow forgetting that the bridge on the way is under construction, so you have to run two blocks out of your way just to get there) and hoping to arrive in time to catch the 8:30 to Grand Central Terminal. Not so fast! Like many stations, there are four sets of tracks, including one each of a local and an express for both the northbound and southbound trains. So you can imagine our surprise when 8:30 rolled around and what arrived on the southbound local track, next to the platform, was instead, a northbound train letting people out, but not picking up passengers. We didn't mind that part, because the train was going in the wrong direction, but we all realized that there was no way our train could come, until this other train moved out of the way, and far enough past us to get switched off the local southbound tracks and clear the way for our train to use those same tracks. When that was finally accomplished and the southbound train pulled up to the platform at last, everyone piled into it since it was 10 minutes late, and found that it was already full and we had to stand all the way to the city. It also turned out to be not the 8:30 train anyway, but the 8:15, and they did announce that our real train, the 8:30, was right behind it and we should wait for that, since it was emptier, but most of us didn't want to take any more chances and just stayed where we were, standing up and grousing in the doorways. The good news, I suppose, was that the conductors didn't dare come around and take tickets under the circumstances, so a person could have gotten a ride for free, if they hadn't already bought their ticket.

The graduation ceremony was going to be at Lincoln Center, in Avery Fisher Hall, so my first order of business was to find the subway tunnel for the Shuttle and take that to Times Square, because apparently the 1 train is the only subway that goes to Lincoln Center. That actually worked pretty well, even with buying a $4 MetroCard from a ticket machine that didn't accept cash, only plastic, so I will have a $4 charge on my credit card, no thank you so very much not. Lately, when I've been in the city, I generally use the 4 - 5 - 6 trains to go downtown from Grand Central, and these trains have a handy feature with a recorded message that tells you what station you have arrived at, and what the next stop will be. Apparently this feature is peculiar to those trains, because it wasn't present on the uptown lines that I took, and it makes it a lot harder to know where you are, or how close you're getting to your destination. In fact, when the train arrived at 66th street, I couldn't see the name on the walls anywhere, and it was only lucky that they also print it on the support columns, so I knew to get off there. When you come up from the subway, you find Lincoln Center right there, but it takes up several blocks in each direction, so I printed myself a map from their web site, to help me find where I was going. My job was to reconnoiter with another young lady who had the tickets to be admitted, and she had suggested, for the sake of convenience, that she and I and another young fellow should meet at the world-famous Revson fountain in the heart of Lincoln Center. This splendid architectural element has been celebrated in movies and TV, as well as photographs in every type of media, and tour guides of every description. If you ever watched "The Producers" on television, you saw Gene Wilder's character splashing in the fountain, which even 40 years ago, was already a world-famous landmark. Obviously, this would be an ideal place for three people to meet, not only being so iconic that anyone could find it, but also handily located right in front of Avery Fisher Hall. What could be better! [Please take a moment to insert your own punchline here, as I'm sure anyone could see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon of this scenario.]

One month previously, on April 16 2008, the Revson fountain was dismantled and removed, and the courtyard walled off with construction fencing, while the plaza was being completely renovated, and I don't mind saying, no thank you so very much not. It was certainly an unwelcome sight to me when I arrived at the plaza, when what to my wondering eyes did not appear was the world-famous fountain, and I also didn't see the two people I was supposed to meet there, even if the fountain had been there, which it decidedly wasn't. The area outside of the construction fencing was full of graduating students milling about in their caps and gowns, plus their proud and doting families, but no one on the lookout for me with my ticket to get inside. As it was starting to get late, I had no choice but to call the graduate herself, who I figured was probably pretty busy at the time, and I left a message that I was outside but couldn't find her friend who had the tickets. At that point, I was about to leave her the cell phone number to call me back at, except that I was carrying the Nextel phone they gave us at work, which we use for the two-way radio feature and not the cell phone, and as a result, I have no idea what the phone number is. So there I was, standing outside the construction fence at Lincoln Center where the fountain was supposed to be, in front of Avery Fisher Hall, where I couldn't get in without a ticket, and I'm pressing every button on the Nextel that I can think of, in the hopes that there is some place that it will tell me what the phone number is. Luckily at that moment, the phone rang, and it turned out to be the young lady with the tickets, so I told her where I was, and she said she would hurry right over. I should have noticed sooner that there was another person hanging out right near me, and it turned out to be the young fellow who was also waiting for a ticket, but I didn't know him and he didn't know me, so we had probably passed each other numerous times while looking for this errant ticket person, without realizing that we were two sides of the same triangle, so to speak.

The graduation ceremony itself was interesting and entertaining, and we had excellent seats in the lower tier of boxes along the wall. The speeches were short and relevant, and although there were a lot of them, never boring. There was a lovely brass ensemble that played at different times during the program, as well as a soprano, and you can believe me when I tell you that there is a reason why Avery Fisher Hall is renowned for its acoustics. It's true that with over 500 Masters and Ph.D. students, all being announced individually and walking across the stage in silly hats, it did take a very long time and soon became monotonous. But I'm sure after all their hard work (and their parents' expense) we would have to agree they each deserved their moment in the spotlight, so we shouldn't begrudge them that. Some of us might have felt that they saved the best for last, after the final diploma was handed out and we were dismissed, we were treated to the rousing sounds of the NYU pipe and drum corps, as welcome as they were surprising. They were turned out in the traditional kilts and tams, plus knee socks and sporrans, but with the pipers carrying uncharacteristic purple bagpipes, which I can't say is an innovation that much improves the instrument.

From there, we took the subway across town and had lunch in an Irish pub called The Blarney Stone, which may have had something to do with bagpipe music in our heads, but more likely because I vetoed the original suggestion of Cosi's, which is a chain that features odd food and bizarre decor, and I had already found out that one time there was too many for me. We found it tasty and inexpensive, although the first part may have just been because it was almost 3:00 and we were about ready to die of starvation. After reviving our flagging spirits with food, we walked over to First Avenue and signed up for the tour at the United Nations. I had never been there, even as a school field trip in my youth, so I found it really interesting and different. Our tour guide was a woman from Zimbabwe, who spoke excellent English, but they also offer tours in other languages, such as French and Chinese for foreign tourists. We had a chance to sit in the Security Council room, the General Assembly room, and some other meeting rooms, and we saw many exhibits, about subjects like weapons and colonization, plus some wonderfully elaborate gifts from foreign governments. Our guide was a wealth of information, and they even let you take pictures in there, where I would expect them to be a lot more jittery about cameras or recording devices. The tour wraps up in the gift shop downstairs, and here it seems they have jewelry, gifts and handicrafts from each of the 192 countries that belong to the United Nations, and you could just spend all day there looking at everything, each item more beautiful or unusual than the next. Having said that, however, I have to admit that it fails the first test of a gift shop for me, as it had neither salt and pepper shakers, nor souvenir spoons, which is a condition that rarely befalls me in my travels. I ended up buying a souvenir key chain for myself, and a guide book to New York City written in Russian for Bill, and considered the day a huge success, and it goes without saying, I have the pictures to prove it.

By then it was late, so we hurried back to Grand Central and went our separate ways, with me running to catch the 6:00 train home, and lucky to just make it in time. But I got a seat and the train left on time, and arrived without incident, so it was already an improvement over the morning trip. Of course, you still have to walk the two blocks out of your way around the bridge construction just to get back to the hospital parking lot, and by then, making end-runs around construction projects was getting to be old news for me and I was sick and tired of it. In fact, it reminded me of a book I read recently, where the main character said that an unfriendly woman he met looked at him like a hammer looks at a nail, and that's about how I was feeling. It was a fun day, but a long one, full of lots of activity and tramping around, and I was glad to get home and relax after all that. Frankly, I think that visiting 192 countries in one day is enough for anybody, and that's without all the silly hats.

The Devil Made Me Do It

Hello World,

Well, the time has finally come when we can wish a very Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful mothers out there, and for everyone else who may not technically be a mother, remember: "They also serve who only stand and cheer." So if Sunday doesn't find you surrounded by loved ones and heaped with presents and accolades, then this might be the day for you to be the cheering section instead, and recognize the accomplishments of the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, cousins and other worthy maternal figures in your life. As a word of caution, I can highly recommend that you do not take the advice of your cats when picking an appropriate Mother's Day gift, or the poor woman will be stuck with catnip toys and fish heads. No, cats may have many fine qualities, but you can believe me when I say that their fingers are not on the pulse of the American mother when it comes to gifts, no matter what they may tell you to the contrary. You're better off sticking with the tried and true at a time like this, and I hear that flowers are very popular for the occasion.

Speaking of flowers, the unpredictable spring weather would not seem conducive to garden delights, but apparently the flowers are made of sterner stuff than the weather can throw at them. The white muscari, which are later than the regular grape, are just beginning to open, and even the wood hyacinths in assorted pale shades. There's bleeding heart coming up in places where it doesn't even belong, while the wisteria and azaleas alike are all set to burst into bloom. Anyone who has them will tell you that the lilacs have just exploded, and I guarantee that their heady fragrance is a tonic for whatever ails you. Meanwhile, in the front yard, I spotted some tiny yellow flowers in with our colorful sea of violets, and had to give them a closer look. I know there's no such thing as yellow violets, although these were doing a pretty good imitation, and I was surprised to realize that they were the flowers you get that turn into wild strawberries, because I would have thought it was much too early for that. On the other hand, it seems to be never too early for poison ivy, and I noticed a patch of rampant mutant alien poison ivy on our top walk by the bird feeder, which is standing straight up 2-feet tall like a bush, wide out in the open as bold as brass, and just making an extremely obnoxious spectacle of itself, not to mention a very unwelcome one at that.

I had some empty planters, so Bill and I went to the store and got some impatiens, pansies, petunias and marigolds, for different areas of the yard. What I like about planters is that I can put flowers in places where they can't be planted, like on the front porch or the steps, where it helps to have a spot of color. They also work better than planting in uneven areas with bad drainage, or where the ground is so hard that nothing wants to grow, except of course, our ubiquitous poison ivy and dandelions. While I was at it, I also picked up a couple of mini roses, which I always enjoy having, although they can be fussy about being neglected and are not always the most realistic choice for me. They weren't blooming when I got them, and they had no identifying information with them, so it should be interesting to see what color they turn out to be. So far, everything seems to be doing well, and the juvenile delinquent squirrels haven't even dug them out of the containers and scattered them around the place.

Try as I might, I could not talk myself out of another rosebush for the top walk, so I got one of those as well. I lugged it up the steps and left it reluctantly in the spot that I wish I didn't have to, but unfortunately can only describe as "the rosebush graveyard." It doesn't seem to be a bad area, and in fact, rosebushes on either side of it seem to do okay, but the plain fact of the matter is that this would be the sixth rosebush that I'm putting in the same place, so that tells you something right there. I finally wised up and bought this Rainbow Knockout rose in a bucket from our friends at Wild Star Gardens, and I decided to put the bucket where I want it, and just leave it like that. I figure if every rosebush that I put there is going to die, there's no sense for me to keep digging holes for them each time. What I really need is for someone to develop a poison ivy rose, or maybe a dandelion bush, which at least I know would do well in our yard when all else fails.

I may be over-sensitive to this sort of thing, but when I was clearing out my Spam folder recently, one of the messages really jumped out at me, as it was from "k.m.j. @ ifiend.net" offering me some fabulous discount on something or other. It made me wonder how anyone could have thought that "ifiend" would be the right name for them, which would attract customers and make them want to do business with the, er, fiends at ifiend. Frankly, that name would make me want to run in the opposite direction, and I would rather cut off my arm than give out my credit card information to a place called ifiend, for heaven's sake. I mean, it doesn't take a whole suitcase full of brains to figure out that if you want people to accept you as a legitimate business that they can trust and shop with confidence, then you can't possibly call yourself ifiend, and think that it's not going to create exactly the wrong impression from what you're trying to promote. I'm thinking this name only works if you're the online source for fire and brimstone, tridents, horns and cloven hooves, and while I don't know what sort of market there is for these items, I have the feeling that all the discounts in the world are not going to help you.

Speaking of help, while I hate to complain about the updated version of AOL 9.0 VR, I found that sometimes even a new and improved feature can turn into a little too much of a good thing. In my note last week, I was trying to replicate a subject line from some junk email that was full of typos, and the problem was that as I typed the words in incorrectly, the auto spell-check feature in the new AOL went right along after me and did its thing, by automatically correcting them for me. No, no, no -- bad AOL! It seemed that nothing I did would make it stop changing "disconuts" to "discounts" or "popluar" to "popular," and I tried every trick in the book that had worked for me in other programs. I didn't want to turn off the feature completely, because it really is very handy, but it certainly made me long for the days when you could count on help to be not so much of a hindrance. Get thee behind me, ifiend.

On the topic of stumbling blocks, I suppose this is as good a place as any to relate this next item. The pastor of my church said that he had a request for a copy of his sermon for Ascension Day on Sunday, so he sent it to all of us as an attachment to his email. I wrote back to thank him, and said that I was glad to have it handy, in case I had trouble sleeping. It should be obvious to anyone that I am headed straight to you-know-where, and in a hand-basket no less. You'll probably be hearing from me next at ifiend.net.

Meanwhile, on the local sports scene, there is certainly no joy in Mudville, as the Rangers were eliminated from the second round of the playoffs in five games. In our house, the only one who is glad about this is our TiVo, which now has a lot of extra space to record programs that it likes, such as The Barefoot Contessa and Super Password, that we refuse to watch. The way things are going in the playoffs, I can't see the NHL and media bigwigs being all that delirious with a final round that pits Detroit against Pittsburgh, which would not have the ratings potential of a more marketable match-up like the Rangers and Boston, or even Los Angeles. Of course, this is the NHL, where the ratings are measured in microns anyway, and anything above a negative number is cause for celebration.

Another nasty surprise that snuck up on us, and will be going into effect on Monday morning, is the new first-class postage rates, which will be a staggering 42c for regular envelopes, and I don't mind saying, no thank you very much not. It was a good thing I found out just before I bought more stamps, or I'd be stuck with 200 stamps at the wrong rate, and have to go chasing after a bunch of 1c stamps before I could mail anything. In fact, I will probably have to do that anyway, because I just uncovered an old stash of a hundred 37c stamps, believe it or not, and while I have plenty of 2c stamps already (from when postage went from 39c to 41c it seems like only recently) unfortunately there's no way to get from 37c to 42c without a 1c stamp in there somewhere. Bill, naturally, is immune to the vicissitudes of postage fluctuations, because he buys the Liberty Bell "forever" stamps, and they are always valid regardless of the rate changes. After this last bit of postal folderol, I can see where that idea has a lot to recommend it, and it's only because I know they would discontinue the option as soon as I got on board with it, so I consider it my civic duty not to buy them, in order to preserve this advantage for the rest of humanity. You're welcome.

Here's a note from an alert reader about an idea whose time may or may not have come:

=======================
Have beenfixing up the kitchen cabinets by putting pull-outracks in so we can get to stuff that has been pushedto the back and not seen for years. Now we can seeit, get to it, and push it back for a few more years. Love Home Depot.
=======================

Say, I think she may really be on to something there. Although after a while, it may look a little bit more like the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari rather than Home Depot, and that's no joke. Speaking of horror movies, I didn't really think that I was having such a tough week, all things considered, until I realized when I came back from lunch today that I had never combed my hair before I went to work in the morning. Yipes! I won't say that this was exactly the "Bride of Frankenstein" look that would make people flee in terror from the sight, but it was certainly not the well-coiffed style that we strive for around here. Oh well, I suppose that things can always be worse, and I ought to know. Or perhaps that's just the ifiend talking.

In The Pink

Hello World,

Happy May Day (a little bit late) and also a very feliz Cinco de Mayo (a little bit early) as this week shapes up to have some busy times for all the revelers out there. Next Sunday is Mother's Day already, so it seems that we have a little bit of something for everyone, and plenty to look forward to. Especially if your mother is a Mexican Communist, in which case, she would be in her glory, and these would be about the best two weeks of the year for her. For the rest of us, we'll just have to make do, without being the matriarch of our clan, routing the French invaders at Puebla, or saluting Mother Russia in Red Square. It certainly sounds like the time to break out the long-stem roses, tequila and borscht, da?

Although I spoke too soon, it was not by a lot, as I looked out the bedroom window yesterday, and was greeted with the sight of our neighbor's spectacular dogwoods putting on a show, as they do every year. There's a line of them running along our driveway, from the front to the back yard, and for as long as I've been here, they've been one of the special treats of spring, and each year more breathtaking. They're impossible to miss, and if I'm out in the yard, or if we have company, people can't help but exclaim: "I love your dogwoods!" This is what I say: "Thank you." You notice how I leave out that part about how they're actually the neighbor's dogwoods, not ours, and it's their care and dedication and hard work that keeps them looking so beautiful year in and year out, while I'm just basking in the compliments. Of course, taking credit for your neighbor's accomplishments is not exactly the moral high ground that we strive for, but after all, it's not like I don't have a green thumb of my own. You should just see my poison ivy.

Speaking of colors, Bill was having a problem with their large-format printer at work, where the other color cartridges would print, but not the yellow for some reason. This created some odd looking results, as you can imagine, including a page full of McDonald's coffees in special flavors, which all came out looking bright pink, instead of the more usual brown that you would typically expect in coffee. Bill thought that this sign would not be a big hit at McDonald's, where pink coffee might be considered an idea whose time has not yet come, and instead of McCafe would look more like McBarbie. But I said that they could probably turn it into a big seller in October, in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and it could start a whole new trend of pink foods. I mean, why should Hostess Sno-balls have all the fun?

Last week, I couldn't help but notice this message in my incoming email from the fiendish minions at networks@cardboardfish.com with the peculiar subject line of: "Get the gerat disconuts for networks on popluar softawre!" Now, it's true that the senders of junk email deliberately spell words wrong, to avoid the anti-spam programs that check for particular words, and block the ones they find. The mis-spellings didn't work in this case, because even AOL figured out that this message belonged in my Spam folder, which is where I found it later. But even if it wasn't in my Spam folder, I wonder that they would think I would want to buy my network software from a place offering "gerat disconuts." I realize there's no standards anymore, but that seems hopelessly optimistic, even for me. And while I don't know about being popluar, I have to say that those disconuts certainly sound good to me. Especially if they're pink.

I was just about to buy myself a pair of shoes that I had seen in a catalog, not that I need more shoes, heaven knows, but they were very attractive and on sale, which made them even more attractive in my estimation. Then I stopped and wondered if I didn't already have a pair of shoes that looked just like that, and rather than go upstairs and look, I started to write a list of the shoes that I had, with their distinguishing features, and see if something like this turned up. Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm no follower of high fashion, and while I have a lot of clothes, they're all very inexpensive and extremely far from the cutting edge of the latest style. Even less so would I consider myself a slave to footwear, as I buy them in only black or white, and nothing but sensible dress shoes that I wear to work. But here I was, making this list, and it finally got so long (and that was only one color) that even I was embarrassed, and I don't mind saying, I'm not easily embarrassed. As a result of this little exercise, it became not at all difficult to talk myself out of yet another pair of shoes, which apparently would be like carrying coals to Newcastle, or perhaps carrying shoes to Imelda Marcos' closet would be a better metaphor under the circumstances. Fortunately, I'm a long way from getting to that point, but it's better to be cautious, or the next thing you know, I'd be buying shoes that were pink.

Alert readers may remember the trials and tribulations of the Patient Satisfaction Team skit, from its humble beginnings of table readings and script revisions, through the ill-fated dress rehearsal in the auditorium along with the aerobics class at full volume, to the acclaimed performance at the LDI luncheon, and finally the videotaping in February with the last-minute substitutes filling in most of the parts. After about two months of editing and post-production, everyone on the Patient Satisfaction Team was invited to what we referred to as a "video viewing party" to see the finished product. For the occasion, we were granted access to the lofty 9th floor Board Room, as well as the built-in multi-media equipment, which included a large high-resolution screen for our viewing pleasure. Personally, I couldn't help but think that the video would be so amateurish that seeing it on a big screen might be more of a drawback than an advantage, even for the most indulgent viewer. But all things considered, it must be said that it came out better than I would have expected, and was not such an embarrassment to the participants that we flung ourselves out the windows in horror. That was a good thing, because we would have missed all the treats that were in store for us. The team leaders thanked us all for our contributions to the team, and for our time and effort to improve patient satisfaction throughout the health system. They gave everyone a "goodie bag" that included a DVD of the skit, some healthy snacks, promotional items from the hospital, and my personal favorite, an "Oscar"
certificate for our part in the skit, which was beautifully printed with our name and the details of our accomplishment. It was very sweet and it made us feel that all of our hard work had not been in vain, even though many times, in fact most of the time, the skit seemed like a lost cause and beyond redeeming. But apparently, it turned out to be the poison ivy of skits, there was just no killing it, in spite of all obstacles, and now I have the DVD to prove it.

And finally, on the subject of teams, the Joy in Mudville has been few and far between lately, at least in our house, with the unwelcome prospect of getting worse before it gets better, which as prospects go, would certainly not be my first choice. Usually, smirking at the vaunted Yankees floundering under .500 would be a guilty pleasure we could indulge in at least temporarily, but with the Mets record at a hapless 14-12, there's certainly no bragging rights to be had in the cross-town baseball rivalry. Even worse are the Rangers, who handily dispatched the dreaded New Jersey Devils in the first round of the playoffs, only to run into the buzz-saw of Pittsburgh in the second round. That series now stands at 3 games to 1, with the Rangers on the short end of things, and with their backs against the wall, have no margin for error without being eliminated. Oh well, this is how it is in sports, sometimes you're the pigeon and sometimes you're the statue, and in spite of the odds-makers, the outcome is always in doubt. I suppose one good thing about the playoffs, champagne works just as well at celebrations for the winning team, as it does at drowning your sorrows for fans of the losing team. As for myself, you can make mine pink.