Over Easy

Hello World,

Don't look now, but this is the last weekend in September, and October will be upon us before we know what's hit us. We've reached an unpredictable time at home and on the job, where you can never tell if it's going to be warm outdoors and cold inside, or cold outside and warm indoors, so you have no idea how to dress for either location. Speaking of unpredictable, we seem to have moved past the hurricane season of unstable tropical weather systems, and entered the bank failure season, where even the most seemingly robust financial institutions may collapse in spectacular fashion. I'll admit that I've never been a fan of hurricanes, but I can't say that I care for the bank problems any better, and that's putting it mildly.

Meanwhile at work, I contacted the vendor we use for our mailing equipment, to find out about removing the old equipment that had been replaced, but was still taking up space in the hallway and getting in everyone's way. The sales rep responded to my note promptly, and said that the leasing company had no interest in the equipment being returned to them, and we could dispose of it responsibly on our own. He closed his reply with what I'm sure he considered a professionally appropriate remark, that is, except for the part where Dr. Freud shows up with his slip: "If you have any additional questions please do hesitate to contact me." Well, I guess I will! There may have been more truth in that inadvertent comment than he meant to reveal, but it certainly served the purpose of making me hesitate to contact him again, that's for sure. If nothing else, I ought to know when I'm not wanted, and you can believe me when I say that I don't need to be hit over the head with a Freudian slip either.

Our local newspaper has created a new section on Thursdays that showcases events and establishments that people should patronize in the region, for something fun, unusual or entertaining to do with the family during the weekend, rather than the same old routine. (I feel it's only fair to explain, for the sake of clarification, that here I mean "patronize" in the sense of "go and buy something" and not "to belittle or treat condescendingly.") The offerings run the gamut from movies and restaurants, to community theater, music performances, antiques shows, crafts fairs, art exhibits, parades and everything in between. There are dozens of pages with hundreds of suggestions, and more than enough choices to entice even the most cosmopolitan tastes, so much so that a person perusing the selection and not finding any to fancy, would have to be considered legally dead. It was in this section of local attractions that Bill objected to a quarter-page ad for something called Weed Orchards (and please do visit their web site at www.weedorchards.com and see for yourself) where their Grape Festival is going on now, although what sort of grapes you would get in a weed orchard is beyond me. Bill couldn't help but feel that the name of the place was an unfortunate choice for an agricultural business, but I said I could top that without even trying. The previous week, there was a big front page story in the Business section about New York State apples, topped with an adorable picture of a little girl eating an apple, and as far as I'm concerned, the caption says it all: Bella Catarina, 3, of Somers bites into a apple she picked from a tree at Outhouse Orchards in North Salem. The farm, owned by Wayne Outhouse and his son, Andrew, will produce 5,000 to 8,000 bushels of more than a dozen varieties of apples in the fall." Now, far be it from me to cast aspersions on anyone's heritage, but I may as well say right up front that if your family name is Outhouse, the one thing you cannot do is go into the food business in any capacity whatsoever, and there are no justifiable exceptions to this rule. There are lots of other career paths to choose (in fact, the Port-A-Potty industry springs immediately to mind) and of course, politics would be a natural. But anything in the edible industry is right out of the question, and I don't mind saying, that I am unanimous in that. Next thing you know, they'll be growing grapes and making Outhouse wines, for heaven's sake.

Even alert readers could be forgiven for failing to recall part of a note of mine from last year about a close encounter with fame:

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Meanwhile in local news, and you can't get much more local than this, we received a notice from the president of our neighborhood association about a film crew that will be working at a neighbor's house down the block on the 12th, 13th and 14th, and we should be prepared for disruptions. They tell us that this is going to be a Coen Brothers movie about a CIA agent, starring George Clooney, or should I say, "Be still, my heart!" While it's true that I've been living for over 20 years in this somewhat exclusive neighborhood full of the rich and (at least semi-) famous, the prospect of having George Clooney down the street for three days can in no way be considered a "ho-hum" idea in my life. Although I will say that this would be my second brush with celebrity, as they filmed "The Hot Rock" with Robert Redford in 1972 across the street from my high school, and to say that academic life was brought to a complete standstill would be an understatement of epic proportions. So it should be interesting times ahead in the old stomping grounds, what with the film crews, technical equipment, trailers, supply trucks, production staff, actors and miscellaneous personnel that are invariably attracted to the bright lights and big city. I was thinking that I might even get into the movie as an extra, except for the fact that it's about the CIA, and everyone knows that I can't keep a secret.
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Anyone paying attention to the current media would recognize that as the recently opened "Burn After Reading," which is most likely playing in a theater near you, even at this very moment. The neighborhood was all agog with excitement when the film first opened on Friday the 12th, and invaded the cinema en masse to watch it as a group outing, followed by a rollicking house party to celebrate. Bill and I thought that might be a little too much of a good thing, as they say, but we still wanted to be supportive of local film crews, so we waited a week and then went to see it by ourselves. We were not all that familiar with the Coen Brothers body of work, but the movie trailers seemed entertaining, and with George Clooney and Brad Pitt, we figured how bad could it be? Apparently the answer to that question depends on whether you expect comedies to be funny, which this film most definitely was not, in fact, it veered so far in the other direction that I think a genre has yet to be invented for it. Personally, I blame the studios for producing trailers to convince people that a movie is a light-hearted romp, when it isn't anything of the sort, which is a disservice to both sides and satisfies no one. The audiences expecting a comedy are outraged, while the people who would have appreciated its stronger content were dissuaded by its promotion as a piece of fluff. It wasn't dramatic enough to be a drama, and it was awkward rather than funny, with the most appalling language, and senseless violence that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Everyone in it was either miscast, or badly wasted in a poor role, and no amount of talent could redeem the fact that all of the characters were either obnoxious or boring, or both. The star of the picture (and at least for us, the reason for seeing the film in the first place) the neighbor's house where the movie was shot, performed admirably throughout, doing yeoman service in what was ultimately a hopeless cause. But even here, while it was interesting to see our neighborhood in a real Hollywood movie, I found the establishing shots of the house to be stale and contrived, like a display of period furniture in a museum, where nothing will ever make it look as if real people actually live there. We left the theater shaking our heads (Bill was muttering something about "the emperor's new clothes" under his breath) and wondered how anyone could have seen that script and decided to go ahead with the project anyway, it was just a mystery to us.

In other work news, the hospital management in its infinite wisdom, recently rolled out a new program to recognize excellence among the staff, because our motto is Always Choosing Excellence, and they felt it was important to reinforce those behaviors that match our motto. You may notice that the acronym for Always Choosing Excellence is ACE, so they developed paper forms that look like an ace from a deck of playing cards, and they announced the ACE Card Launch with all the fanfare and hyperbole that we have come to expect at the employer of last resort in our fair city: "The ACE Cards recognize distinct and extraordinary accomplishments with identifiable impacts ... to encourage and recognize those individuals who go above and beyond to make the patient care experience extraordinary." We were all invited to an Ice Cream Social to Kick-Off the ACE Card Program, and dotted throughout all of our facilities were new display boards with a description of the ACE Card Program, plus ACE Cards that people could use to recognize excellence when they saw it. A week later, we all received a cheery note from the President of the medical center, which began with this opening salvo: "This week we launched the ACE Card Program and I am pleased with the responses, as of today I have received over 7 cards submitted recognizing our employees." Now, I have been working at this chicken coop for almost 20 years and I don't like to nitpick, but what amount of something could you receive, that you would describe it as "over 7?" Seven and a half? Eight? It obviously wasn't as much as 10, or he would have said so. Did they receive seven cards, plus promises of others that were on their way, but hadn't gotten there yet? Perhaps it was seven ACE Cards, plus someone threw in a lottery ticket, or a real playing card, or a Cracker Jack prize that qualified as the "over" part of "over 7." Maybe in some other universe, populated only by hospital administrators, there are different incremental numbers between 7 and 8, so you can use the term "over 7" with legitimate reason, but to paraphrase our friend at geekycoder.com, how this expression can make any sense at all fathom me, and that's not just the ice cream talking, believe me. Honestly, you just have to wonder sometimes, and I don't mind saying, it's often more than just sometimes around here. I always say, just when you think that you can't be surprised by anything else that could happen at that place, they somehow manage to toss in another curve and throw us all for a loop. In fact, it might be "over 1" loop, but that would only be in the Hospital Administrators Universe, and probably after they'd gotten into some of that Outhouse wine.

Duck Soup

Hello World,

Well, I have nobody but myself to blame for this weather, and I've got the shaggy dog story to prove it. Years ago, I had bought myself some loungewear from a catalogue, and you could wear it as pajamas, but it was also decorative enough that it could actually be seen in public with no problem. When it arrived, I thought it was much too pretty to just wear for no reason, so I put it away in the spare closet and figured I would take it with me if we ever went to a nice hotel and stayed overnight with friends, where I could wear it in the room and look nice while still being casual. That hypothetical trip never materialized, so it just stayed in the closet all this time, still wrapped in plastic and never opened. I hadn't forgotten about it, and knew it was still in the closet, along with many other things with nowhere else to go that I wanted to keep handy. In fact, it was just the week before that I put a couple of other items in there from upstairs, figuring that anything might happen to them in the attic, heaven knows, so I should bring them downstairs where they would be safe. At this point in the scenario, I personally blame Daffy Duck for not showing up to say, "Shoot me now! Shoot me now!" That would have saved all of us a lot of bother.

It was recently at the tail-end of one of the hurricanes that passed through this area, I think it was Hanna, that the closet unexpectedly sprang a leak, which had never been known to happen before, but there it was. It stained my blouses and skirts that were hanging up, and dripped onto the piles of assorted whatnot on the floor, including the items I had just brought down from the attic for "safe-keeping," and I don't mind saying, no thank you so very much not. When I realized what was happening and put a bucket under it later, it turned out to be the color of black coffee, which is something that I don't even want to think about. I threw all the clothes in the wash, and wiped down everything on the floor that was waterproof and not affected by the leak. Some things seemed to have been out of harm's way, and showed no ill effects, while other things, like books, were unsalvageable. At first I wasn't worried about my loungewear, because it was still wrapped in it original packaging, but I noticed later that the leak had managed to get inside the plastic and stain the fabric anyway, and once again, no thank you so very much not. And as for Daffy Duck, that goes double for you. This was not only ironic because I had never worn it and put it in the closet to be safe, but we had just booked an overnight stay at a hotel with friends, and I was finally planning to take it with me at long last. Not to be daunted, I decided to just wash it and take it with me anyway, even though it wouldn't be just like brand new, after having been washed already. The way things were going, I should not have been surprised to find that the stains would not come out, and I reluctantly gave up on the idea of wearing it with the stains anyway, which I thought would not make a very good impression, even among our friends who are indulgent to a fault.

And so, still not being able to count on Daffy Duck showing up when you need him, here comes the shaggy dog part of the story. Since I had already washed the outfit, I figured I may as well just go ahead and wear it around the house, which I probably should have done years ago when I first got it and be done with it. I expected it would be better than the other outfit I had planned to wear, which included flannel pants, and I was concerned that the weather would be too hot for that to be comfortable, for instance on Sunday when it was almost 90 degrees. So I wore my new outfit instead, which is lavender with fluffy pink sheep, and seems to be of a thin and flimsy material, which I would have described as "threadbare" if I didn't know that it was brand new. As a result, the temperatures plummeted instantly to the 50s at night, and didn't get above 70 during the day, and I've been shivering in my fluffy pink sheep all week, and it goes without saying, no thank you so very much not. Earlier, I had a flea jump on me in the living room, and his little teeth were chattering so much that the poor thing couldn't even bite me. And this was in spite of him wearing long-johns and earmuffs, so he could be in for a tough winter ahead around here, and we already know we can't count on Daffy Duck for anything, that's for sure.

Speaking of hurricanes, our local weather had some residual effects from Gustav and Hanna passing through this area, but Ike never came this way, dragging along torrential rains and high winds in his wake, as they usually do. Unfortunately, because Ike hit the Gulf Coast instead, where the oil refineries are, his effects were of a vastly different and unexpected sort. After weeks of watching the price of gas creep down at the Sunoco station on the way home from work, I was encouraged to see it at $3.79/gal, compared to $3.93 when I got it three weeks ago. Suddenly here's Hurricane Ike, and the price of regular at the Sunoco shot up to $3.95 in one day. Frankly, I'd rather have the rain and wind instead, because Ike was certainly doing us no favors in passing us by. After taking that hit at the pumps, you can believe me when I say that the idea of trying to sell "I like Ike" buttons around here has gone the way of 25 cent gas, and I ought to know.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have always maintained that I am a victim of a vast conspiracy by eye care professionals everywhere to prevent me from seeing better. Now, I know what you're thinking -- what possible advantage could there be for the ophthalmology industry that they would all band together and work in concert against my best interests? I admit that I don't have the answer to that question. However, I remind you that it is the complete lack of proof that just goes to show how well the conspiracy is working. At any rate, I did finally make an appointment to go to the eye doctor after way too long, and even I was embarrassed to be seen with my old ratty glasses that were not only scratched, but bent all out of shape besides, and I'm not easily embarrassed. (I'd be happy to send you a picture of me wearing fluffy pink sheep loungewear with stains, if you'd like.) The last time I was at the eye doctor, which was in 2004, my prescription hadn't really changed from previously, and I decided against getting new glasses at that time, even though the glasses were fairly old and beat up, even then. Now four years later, I knew I had to get new glasses, regardless of whether my prescription changed or not, there was just no way around it. As a convenience to his patients, the eye doctor has an optician's branch office in the same building, so I walked in there and picked out some new frames, gave them my prescription, and went on my way with an almost giddy sense of expectation. It's true that I've been wearing glasses now since about 1962, and you would think that getting new glasses would be the sort of mundane and routine experience that the excitement would have long since worn off and become old hat by now. But when they called me last week to come and pick them up, I flew over there at lunch time and couldn't get there fast enough. Over the years, I've had just about every kind of glasses that one person could have, but I have never in my life had a pair of glasses as light as these are, they're like not wearing anything at all. I've had plastic frames before, as well as plastic lenses, but I've never felt anything like these new ones, and I have no idea how they make them so that they seem like there's nothing there at all. Plus, without the scratches, and being all bent out of shape, it's amazing how everything looks so much better, not only crystal clear, but straight and level, which is a nice change of pace for me. And while I don't know what the conspiracy has up its sleeve next, I can't help but feel that somebody must have been asleep at the switch for me to get these great new glasses, or perhaps they also were counting on Daffy Duck, which as we all know, is nothing but a lost cause nowadays.

One thing I almost forgot to mention, and the most important of all, which we get courtesy of Bill's calendar for September 19:

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TODAY IS TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY.
HERE ARE THE MEANINGS OF SOME PIRATE PHRASES TO GET YOU ST-ARRRR-TED.Avast: “Hey!” or “Who goes there?”Briny deep: The oceanJolly Roger: The skull-and-crossbones flagLandlubber: A non-sailorSea dog: An experienced sailorShanty: A sea songShiver me timbers: “I am surprised!”
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Well, blow me down and dance on a dead man's chest, Popeye me bucko, let's all have some grog and spin yarns about sea serpents, pieces of eight and Davy Jones' locker. I'll just go get my parrot and my eye patch, and I'll be all set, although I suppose if we're going to go hunt for hidden treasure, I'd better bring along my sword, just to be on the safe side. And while a dagger might be considered a traditional pirate accessory, I think we'd all agree that a Swiss Army knife is a lot more practical, and I never leave home without mine. So grab your belaying pins and peg legs, and let's get ready to weigh anchor and set sail for adventure on the high seas. This is my kind of a holiday (as opposed to a "wailaday" which just makes people depressed) and the party poopers can just go ahead and walk the gangplank as far as I'm concerned, while the rest of us party like it's 1799. In the immortal words of Long John Silver, or perhaps it was Daffy Duck, I get them mixed up, "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, makes me happy in my tummy-tum-tum!"

Train Tracks

Hello World,

Glub, glub, glub! I don't know about where you are, but in the local area, I think it would be safe to say that we've certainly had more than enough rain to last us for quite a while, and then some. At this rate, we're all going to get a lot of experience at ark building, which might be considered just a little bit too much of a good thing, and that's putting it mildly. Between the series of hurricanes on the one hand, and the rest of the weather systems that get stalled because of them on the other, we've been getting pelted with heavy weather from every side lately. I'm only taking time out from building my ark to send this note, but I'll be getting right back to it later, and not a moment too soon, before we all get washed away and our tools right along with us. After all, if we have learned nothing else from my old friends the dinosaurs, after all of these countless centuries, at least we know better than to ignore all of the warning signs and not be prepared. Of course, if people always did what they were supposed to do, we'd all still be living in the Garden of Eden now, instead of building bunches of arks as fast as our fingers will carry us, out of fear for our lives. Or as it says in the words of the famous song, "They paved Paradise and put up an arking lot." Say, I'll bet you didn't see that one coming.

Last Saturday was another one where they turned on the waterworks and just left them running all day, so that getting out and doing anything was not for the faint-hearted by any means. After I dropped my sister off at the train station, she tried to convince me that I shouldn't try to drive home on my own, but call Bill and have him pick me up, because she despaired of me getting myself all the way home from two towns away. I'm made of sterner stuff, but I did call Bill to let him know I was on my way, and while he's certainly no alarmist, he made a point to caution me to stay on high ground, avoid puddles and take the Thruway rather than local streets which might be more prone to flooding. It's easy to get caught up in the excitement of the moment, especially if you pay attention to the dire weather reports, until you begin to believe the doomsday scenario with the apocalypse just around the next corner. So in spite of the driving rain and gusty winds, I have to admit that it came as a relief to me when I turned onto Pinebrook Boulevard and yes, here's a guy out jogging in this weather. Now, I have to say that this is the kind of thing that restores your faith in human nature, and really puts things in perspective, after all of the hype and hoopla. Or perhaps more importantly, it reminds us all to be grateful that insanity is not contagious, but just to be on the safe side, please jog on the other side of the street, thank you very much.

I was not out braving the elements alone last week, as Bill went to the supermarket while the news was awash with endless coverage of hurricanes, evacuations and emergency preparations. Bill reported that the stores were doing a brisk business in milk, bread and batteries, as if people expected to be cast adrift and left to their own devices because of some rain at the tail end of a hurricane from hundreds of miles away. It reminded me of a quip by a local DJ some years ago, who complained about how people would over-react when the weather forecasters would predict snow: "And above all, please don't everybody run to the supermarket. Ever notice how whenever it snows, everyone has to line up at the store for bread, milk and eggs? They're like, 'We have to make French Toast! After all, it's snowing'!" That always breaks me up.

In local sports news, we were offered some Mets tickets that were up for grabs during the week, but decided against attending the game for a variety of reasons, the upshot of which was that naturally the Mets won, since we weren't there. Bill figures that he saved their season right there, by not going to the ballpark and jinxing them in the heat of a pennant race, and I'm sure that legions of grateful Mets fans would thank him for that. Meanwhile across the country, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (honestly, 50 years ago, a team with a ridiculous name like that would have been laughed out of baseball entirely) clinched their division already, so everybody looking toward playing in the post-season knows that they have their work cut out for them and no kidding. By the end of a long season, the teams that are in front are no fluke, and the teams with the best records didn't get that way by accident. Now, I'm not saying that the Angels are going to win the World Series, but you won't find me betting against them either.

In other sports news, that is, if you consider shopping a contact sport, I'm sure everyone will be glad to hear that the church flea market was a rousing success, exceeding all expectations in terms of customers, profits and even the weather, especially lately. They raked in over $500, and don't forget, this was for old books and clothes that smelled like moth balls. I had been there during set-up time, and so got an early peek at the merchandise, with a chance to take a crack at whatever might tickle my fancy, ahead of the general public. I took the opportunity to pick up some books, which anyone can tell you, is something I need about as much as Satan needs more brimstone, but with considerably less space to put it in, and not to mention, a lot less time to devote to reading what I already have. I admit that may have been delusional on my part, but it was for a good cause, and I was glad to support the fund-raising efforts at church, however misguided my choices may have been. It was still better than previous years, when I would go to the flea market and buy back items I had already donated, which as a business model, leaves a lot to be desired. It's only a lucky thing for me that Satan isn't selling his excess brimstone, because everyone knows that I have no sales resistance.

One day last week, I went to see a man about a dog ..... no, that can't be right, that's the punch line to a completely different joke. What I meant was that I was expecting a man with a tow truck to come to the house for my car (no, not the Escort, heck, I could push that uphill with one hand) and I was doing a lot of running around beforehand to get ready. We had a difference of opinion about whether or not the Gremlin could be towed and he left without it, so after that, I hurried to work since I was already late. This turned into another day where I forgot to bring my shoes to work with me, even though I had carefully taken them out of the closet and put them on the dresser where I was changing my clothes, so I ended up wearing my sneakers all day at work. Incredibly, it was later in the same week that Bill repaired some broken earrings of mine that I hadn't worn for years, and I made a special point of wearing a particular dress so that it would go with my newly restored earrings, and then not only completely forgot the earrings that I wanted, but didn't remember to wear any earrings at all. Honestly, some days it's a wonder that I can even find my way across town to my office, and that I have any clothes on when I get there, instead of my pajamas. So I said to Bill that I considered Thursday a red-letter day for me, because I actually got to work and remembered both my shoes and my earrings, which was obviously not something that I should take for granted anymore.

Of course, it's a well-known axiom that there are no standards these days, heaven knows, while the idea of common courtesy is so uncommon as to be virtually extinct. In nice weather, when I walk around outside the hospital campus, I find the concept of sidewalk etiquette is a totally lost art among people nowadays, as if they are alone in the universe and no one else needs to be taken into consideration. So you can imagine my surprise last week, when I was out walking across town by the municipal marina instead, and came upon a young woman pushing a cart and two toddlers along with her. I was preparing to step onto the grass and walk around them, when the mother cried out, "Choo choo train!" and the little girls dutifully lined up behind her in single file, so we could all easily pass on the same sidewalk without getting in each other's way. For their part, the girls acted as if this was a great treat, doing a creditable imitation of a steam locomotive, including the requisite chugging and whistle sounds, which were quite adorable. I was so tickled by the whole performance, and especially the good manners toward strangers, which are so lacking in society today. This is in stark contrast to the neighborhood around the hospital, where it would occur to no one to get out of your way, and one person with a stroller basically commandeers the entire sidewalk, regardless of whoever else might be there, and glares at you besides, so that you just have to walk in the street to get around them. But at least for one brief shining moment, I caught a glimpse of a world where civility is not dead, although it may have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Say, is that Satan over there selling brimstone?

My Dog Has Fleas

Hello World,

If I'm not the first person so far to wish you a Happy Ramadan, at least let me get in there while the getting's good. I am informed by reliable sources (well, it was the calendar) that Ramadan began this year on September 2nd, bringing with it the shiny red dragons, lederhosen and green beer that are beloved traditions of this ethnic salute to fun and frivolity. At least that's what I hope this festival is all about (although I'm not quite so sure about the lederhosen part) because after all, what's the point of having a holiday if it's not going to be fun? Call me a hopeless romantic (go ahead, I dare you!) but I say that life is hard enough without bad holidays making it even worse. In the interests of clarity, I personally think they should come up with a new name for a holiday that makes people depressed, and call it a "wailaday" instead, so that the rest of us don't expect it to be fun, and go around wishing its adherents a "happy" whatever-it-is by mistake. Then anybody who wants to observe their particular "wailaday" can just go off and cry in a corner by themselves, and let everyone else get on with their lives in peace. Just remember, if there's going to be lederhosen and green beer, don't start without me.

Of course, Monday was Labor Day, and around here the flag brigade did its usual admirable job of flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, if I do say so myself. The flags went up in the morning without a hitch, and even more surprising, were carried back inside before dinner, and returned to their places of safekeeping in the house. Keeping in mind that the flag brigade is not as young as it used to be, and I ought to know, this was no trifling matter, or inconsequentiality (yes, I just made that word up) to be taken for granted. In fact, there was only one blemish that spoiled the flag brigade's spotless record of flag etiquette. It happened when I was watering the plants, and failed to notice that where the hose had sprung a leak, instead of dribbling away into the grass, the hose had managed to turn itself over, so the leaky part was spraying water all over the front steps, including the flag, no thank you so very much not. I'm sure I'm not the only person who's ever had that problem, however, because didn't Francis Scott Key start his famous ode to Old Glory with the musical question: "Hose, say, can't you see?"

As long as we're on the subject of trifles, I was pleased to find out that they're planning to have a flea market at church (not that we need any more fleas around here, heaven knows) as a fund-raising effort this weekend. Of course, they made an appeal to the congregation for cast-off items of any kind, and everyone responded with enthusiasm, because there's nothing like a flea market to get rid of a lot of unwanted stuff that's just been cluttering up the place for no reason, and good riddance. For all I know, other people (and here I mean "other" in the sense of "normal") may refuse useless items in the first place, and unlike me, may turn their back on rejects and discards with no feeling of obligation to "give it a good home." These hypothetical other ("normal") people may live in neat and tidy homes, without attics or garages that look like the remains of a warehouse fire at the local landfill. (Here I don't mean to cast aspersions on landfills, because I'm sure they have their standards, and I can tell you that we have plenty of stuff in our basement that no landfill would ever accept.) For those people, a flea market may have no appeal, but for anyone else with a lot of junk to unload, it can be a tremendous boon. I filled up a couple of bags full of freebies and promotional items that I had accumulated over the years, and hurried them right over to church to join the ranks of old clothes, used books, baby toys, record albums and knick-knacks of every description, as well as some which were beyond description. For me, the best part was getting rid of a ton of old plastic shopping bags, and for a worthy cause where they will actually be put to some good use, instead of hanging around here and always being in the way. And while I can't say that we've joined the ranks of those mythical other people in their neat and tidy homes, at least parts of the attic now look like the fire sale after the warehouse fire at the local landfill, instead of before. and that's good enough for me.

There is one constant and inescapable fact of flea markets, no matter when or where they may be found, and in spite of differences in size or scope, they all have one characteristic in common. If there's one in the neighborhood, you may not have seen signs for it, but you can smell it a mile away. Flea markets, by their very nature, attract a lot of fancy gently-used clothing, such as prom dresses, wool coats, hand-made sweaters, silk scarves, linen blazers and evening gowns, which are in very good condition and well taken care of, but no longer serve any useful purpose for their owners. When people are finally ready to part with these treasures, they invariably turn up in flea markets wrapped in plastic and reeking of moth balls, and after unwrapping a dozen baby blankets, or a garment bag full of flannel suits, the poor volunteers are so woozy that they're dropping like, well, moths, and need to be rushed outside for some fresh air. I haven't been to a flea market yet that didn't smell like low tide at the moth ball factory, which is why I suppose they call them flea markets and not moth markets, because a moth wouldn't stand a chance within a mile of the place.

While we're on the topic of not getting within a mile of some place, we have our friends at Dawning Technologies, who provide equipment and service for our Laboratory at the hospital, to keep these critical and sensitive tests running at peak efficiency. We just recently renewed our service contract with Dawning, and I noticed that in their Technical Support Document, they offer what they describe as "Virtual On-Site Service." Now, here is where I part company with the nice folks at Dawning, because this is a classic example of what used to be known (and here I'm referring to those halcyon days of yore, when there used to be standards) as a contradiction in terms, where one part of the phrase is unalterably opposed to the other part, so that the two together make no sense. If this was actually what they meant, it would sound like they were really going to transmit a holographic image of their service technician to work on your equipment, sort of like Princess Leia in the original Star Wars movie creating a holographic message to Obi wan Kenobi for help. Mind you, if I thought that would work, I'd sign up for it in a heartbeat, and ask them to shoot over a holograph of that yummy Mario Lopez, and I'd be all set, thank you so very much. Of course, this is the reason why people originally invented different words for different things, so that everyone could understand, for instance, that "virtual" meant the appearance of something that was not actual, while "on site" referred to the physical reality of being at a particular location. Although it must be said, that would have been when the dinosaurs and I were roaming the vast unformed land masses, and there were actual (as opposed to virtual) standards, at the time and on site (not just pretending to be some place) which is apparently a fusty old-fashioned concept that has long since gone the way of, well, the dinosaurs, I guess.

And speaking of people not saying what they mean (one hopes!) we get the following from Bill, among his usual rounds of research challenges:

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I realized that I had Trevor Howard on the brain since he was in The Third Man, which I watched again on Saturday while you were in Connecticut. And a picture I found of Howard was from what turned out to be a German site about The Third Man. Apparently it's a big thing over there, being a slice of their post-war history (much of it was filmed on site in Vienna). One of the comments on the site -- which is inexplicably in English -- was:
Anna Schmidt
Alida Valli, who only spoke little German, like many others on the set, had difficulties learning bits and pieces of Viennese, lived rather relacted and made no talk of herself through extravageances. She only had more contact with Joseph Cotten whom she knew from previews films in Hollywood... and Orson Welles? "The Third Man was the only film I have watched because I really liked it - and then I watched Alida Valli and I had to ask myself, what have you thought when staying in Vienna for ten days and not having taken the first step towards her?" (Orson Welles)
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Well, I admit that I was trying to come up with a way to improve upon that, but then I realized that I had lived rather relacted and not through extravageances, so I gave it up as a lost cause. After all, I still have my standards, and while they may be nothing more than a quaint anachronism in the modern world, by golly, they're my quaint anachronism, and I'm sticking with them, no matter what. Now for a minute there, I could have sworn that I heard the illusory sound of an imaginary doorbell, indicating the invisible arrival of a virtual on site visitor, but judging by the smell of moth balls, I'd say it was just some people on their way back from a flea market instead.