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:
=====================================
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)
=====================================
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.
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:
=====================================
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)
=====================================
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.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 2:21 PM
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