High Wire
Hello World,
Happy May Day! This is a day which means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, so wherever you fall along the cultural, political, historical or ideological spectrum, I hope that you will be marking the day with the proper observances for the occasion. Frankly, that could mean just about anything, so no matter what you may or may not do, you could safely claim to be celebrating May Day in the appropriate fashion. Speaking of fashion, I'm sure that something which knows no geographical barriers is the tendency of people to throw their sneakers over electrical wires, where they dangle in a disreputable manner until the laces give way and they presumably fall back to earth. We have one such pair of sneakers dangling from electric wires across the street along the parking lot at work, and they've been there for weeks, in all weather, with apparently nobody taking any notice of them. So I admit that it was with some surprise when I left work this afternoon, and discovered that overnight, the sneakers had unexpectedly been joined by a dress shirt which had also been thrown over the electric wires. Now a person can't help but wonder where this will end, whether we can look forward to a complete outfit over our heads, including pants, underwear and socks, to represent a sort of electric scarecrow, or whether it will go more in the direction of a clothesline, with other random apparel added to the mix with no unifying theme. Of course, they say that idle hands are the Devil's workshop, and we all know that the Devil wears Prada, so it should be interesting times ahead on the fashion watch along Sickles Avenue.
While we're on the topic of haute couture, I couldn't help but notice in the TV listings of our local newspaper today, that WNYE, one of the local public television stations, was running what they described as The Designers Marathon. I didn't watch the show, and have no idea what this program may have been about, but I do know that it was in the listings from 10:00 - 11:00 PM, which I have to say, is not much of a marathon, no matter how you look at it. Frankly, except for holding your breath, I can't think of a single other thing you could do for an hour that would be considered "marathonic" in any way, much less an actual marathon of 26 miles or so. By golly, back in the prehistoric days when the dinosaurs and I roamed the vast unformed land masses, you had to actually do something at great length before anyone would describe it as a "marathon," and believe me, if it was only an hour, you'd be laughed right out of the primordial ooze. Personally, I think it's a sad commentary on the short attention span of modern humans that anything of a mere 60 minutes duration could be identified as any sort of "marathon," and seemingly without irony. Of course, The Irony Age has long since passed, and the dinosaurs right along with it, and more's the pity, I'm sure.
Meanwhile, in the LoHud Weekend section of the newspaper, Bill and I both spotted a quarter-page ad for the new Bean Runners Cafe in Peekskill, where they offer food, drinks and desserts along with live jazz and blues for your dining pleasure. This week's ad featured the Mary Creszenzo Trio, which was described thusly:
Mary Creszenzo - vocals
Paul Mesches - guitar
Joe Stelluti - sax, clarinet, flute
John Dunkerley - keyboard
By golly, the dinosaurs and I can remember when a trio had to have three members, no more and no less, and if someone else showed up, they either had to get thrown out, or call themselves a quartet instead. This is what comes of the appalling lack of standards nowadays, where words can mean anything, with the end result that they wind up meaning nothing at all, and also apparently without irony, once again.
I have it on good authority from an alert reader (well, it was Bill) who said that And The Angels Sing was a popular hit song in its time with the big bands of both Benny Goodman and Harry James, in spite of my casting aspersions on it in a previous note, as being a poor choice on Lawrence Welk's part for songs representing the era. Of course, Bill is our research maven, and he knows his stuff, so I'm sure he's right about that. However, it happens that I have in my collection of vinyl records, a compilation of their greatest hits by both Benny Goodman and Harry James, and it does not appear on either album, so I'm not completely prepared to climb on board with this idea just yet. I think we can all agree that Tuxedo Junction or In The Mood would have been a much more appropriate choice than some of the clunkers they came up with instead. Although I will say in his defense that Lawrence Welk never put four people together and called them a trio, and don't forget that one of his show's sponsors was Geritol, so I'm sure he knew a thing or two about irony.
Anyone with allergies can tell you what it's been like in these environs recently, where the streets are coated with the debris of budding trees, and people like me who park outdoors are driving flaky green fuzz-mobiles, with filmy shrouds where the windows should be, and the wipers no match for it. On the news, every year they say that this is the worst year ever with the highest pollen count, and every year, it gets worse than the year before. Apart from the allergens though, all of the flowering trees look great, with the dogwoods, cherry, magnolia, crab apple and redbud all putting on quite a show. In our yard, we still have some late daffodils, but the focus has definitely shifted to the cheerful clumps of fragrant hyacinths, tulips, grape hyacinths, bleeding hearts and violets in riotous proliferations of color everywhere. After clearing out all of the invasive vines and weeds in the ivy patch last year, I found we still had some checkered lily, which I planted when we first got married, and has continued to hang in there, in spite of all the obstacles. At church, the creeping buttercups are a blaze of sunny yellow all over the property, and even though I remember digging one up and planting it at home last year, I have no idea where I put it, so I can't tell if it's blooming now or not. Of course, it's never too early for dandelions, and we have them in profusion, and I also spotted some early rampant mutant alien poison ivy in the back yard, already standing about a foot straight up, and waving itself around as if it's looking for its next meal. It would have to catch me first, and while I would never claim that I can outsmart it, at least I can still outrun it, by golly.
I don't mind saying that I'm just as glad to see the tail-end of this week, which certainly had its ups and downs, and reminds me that it's often a good thing that we don't know what's about to come our way, especially if there's going to be bad news and plenty of it. After weeks of cold and blustery weather, residents of the local area were unprepared for temperatures of 85 degrees last Friday, and over 90 degrees on Saturday,which is so non-representative of April around here, that you would think they let Lawrence Welk pick the weather out of a hat. Sunday was even worse, at least on the playing fields, where the Mets and the Rangers both lost on the same day, which is one of the major disadvantages you have with the overlapping of seasons in different sports. Lately it does no good for the fans of the local pinstripe franchise to gloat over the hapless Mets and their woeful 9-12 record, because at the moment, the Yankees are not doing any better themselves. The first round of the NHL playoffs saw the league-leading Boston Bruins eliminate the Montreal Canadiens in four straight games, and hard on their heels, the Rangers, the Devils and the Flyers all lost their series, dashing the playoff hopes of their disappointed fans. At church, we bid a fond farewell to the beloved music director of decades past, who went on to his heavenly reward, while at home, even one of our invisible cats slipped away from us. This week might have been one for the books, but it would not have been a good book, that's for sure, and in fact, if it had shoelaces, I'd be driving it over to the parking lot at work and throwing it over the electric wires, with the rest of the scarecrow's belongings, and good riddance. Of course, that might be just a little too ironic even for me, because after all, no one knows better than the dinosaurs and me that The Irony Age has long since passed.
Elle
Happy May Day! This is a day which means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, so wherever you fall along the cultural, political, historical or ideological spectrum, I hope that you will be marking the day with the proper observances for the occasion. Frankly, that could mean just about anything, so no matter what you may or may not do, you could safely claim to be celebrating May Day in the appropriate fashion. Speaking of fashion, I'm sure that something which knows no geographical barriers is the tendency of people to throw their sneakers over electrical wires, where they dangle in a disreputable manner until the laces give way and they presumably fall back to earth. We have one such pair of sneakers dangling from electric wires across the street along the parking lot at work, and they've been there for weeks, in all weather, with apparently nobody taking any notice of them. So I admit that it was with some surprise when I left work this afternoon, and discovered that overnight, the sneakers had unexpectedly been joined by a dress shirt which had also been thrown over the electric wires. Now a person can't help but wonder where this will end, whether we can look forward to a complete outfit over our heads, including pants, underwear and socks, to represent a sort of electric scarecrow, or whether it will go more in the direction of a clothesline, with other random apparel added to the mix with no unifying theme. Of course, they say that idle hands are the Devil's workshop, and we all know that the Devil wears Prada, so it should be interesting times ahead on the fashion watch along Sickles Avenue.
While we're on the topic of haute couture, I couldn't help but notice in the TV listings of our local newspaper today, that WNYE, one of the local public television stations, was running what they described as The Designers Marathon. I didn't watch the show, and have no idea what this program may have been about, but I do know that it was in the listings from 10:00 - 11:00 PM, which I have to say, is not much of a marathon, no matter how you look at it. Frankly, except for holding your breath, I can't think of a single other thing you could do for an hour that would be considered "marathonic" in any way, much less an actual marathon of 26 miles or so. By golly, back in the prehistoric days when the dinosaurs and I roamed the vast unformed land masses, you had to actually do something at great length before anyone would describe it as a "marathon," and believe me, if it was only an hour, you'd be laughed right out of the primordial ooze. Personally, I think it's a sad commentary on the short attention span of modern humans that anything of a mere 60 minutes duration could be identified as any sort of "marathon," and seemingly without irony. Of course, The Irony Age has long since passed, and the dinosaurs right along with it, and more's the pity, I'm sure.
Meanwhile, in the LoHud Weekend section of the newspaper, Bill and I both spotted a quarter-page ad for the new Bean Runners Cafe in Peekskill, where they offer food, drinks and desserts along with live jazz and blues for your dining pleasure. This week's ad featured the Mary Creszenzo Trio, which was described thusly:
Mary Creszenzo - vocals
Paul Mesches - guitar
Joe Stelluti - sax, clarinet, flute
John Dunkerley - keyboard
By golly, the dinosaurs and I can remember when a trio had to have three members, no more and no less, and if someone else showed up, they either had to get thrown out, or call themselves a quartet instead. This is what comes of the appalling lack of standards nowadays, where words can mean anything, with the end result that they wind up meaning nothing at all, and also apparently without irony, once again.
I have it on good authority from an alert reader (well, it was Bill) who said that And The Angels Sing was a popular hit song in its time with the big bands of both Benny Goodman and Harry James, in spite of my casting aspersions on it in a previous note, as being a poor choice on Lawrence Welk's part for songs representing the era. Of course, Bill is our research maven, and he knows his stuff, so I'm sure he's right about that. However, it happens that I have in my collection of vinyl records, a compilation of their greatest hits by both Benny Goodman and Harry James, and it does not appear on either album, so I'm not completely prepared to climb on board with this idea just yet. I think we can all agree that Tuxedo Junction or In The Mood would have been a much more appropriate choice than some of the clunkers they came up with instead. Although I will say in his defense that Lawrence Welk never put four people together and called them a trio, and don't forget that one of his show's sponsors was Geritol, so I'm sure he knew a thing or two about irony.
Anyone with allergies can tell you what it's been like in these environs recently, where the streets are coated with the debris of budding trees, and people like me who park outdoors are driving flaky green fuzz-mobiles, with filmy shrouds where the windows should be, and the wipers no match for it. On the news, every year they say that this is the worst year ever with the highest pollen count, and every year, it gets worse than the year before. Apart from the allergens though, all of the flowering trees look great, with the dogwoods, cherry, magnolia, crab apple and redbud all putting on quite a show. In our yard, we still have some late daffodils, but the focus has definitely shifted to the cheerful clumps of fragrant hyacinths, tulips, grape hyacinths, bleeding hearts and violets in riotous proliferations of color everywhere. After clearing out all of the invasive vines and weeds in the ivy patch last year, I found we still had some checkered lily, which I planted when we first got married, and has continued to hang in there, in spite of all the obstacles. At church, the creeping buttercups are a blaze of sunny yellow all over the property, and even though I remember digging one up and planting it at home last year, I have no idea where I put it, so I can't tell if it's blooming now or not. Of course, it's never too early for dandelions, and we have them in profusion, and I also spotted some early rampant mutant alien poison ivy in the back yard, already standing about a foot straight up, and waving itself around as if it's looking for its next meal. It would have to catch me first, and while I would never claim that I can outsmart it, at least I can still outrun it, by golly.
I don't mind saying that I'm just as glad to see the tail-end of this week, which certainly had its ups and downs, and reminds me that it's often a good thing that we don't know what's about to come our way, especially if there's going to be bad news and plenty of it. After weeks of cold and blustery weather, residents of the local area were unprepared for temperatures of 85 degrees last Friday, and over 90 degrees on Saturday,which is so non-representative of April around here, that you would think they let Lawrence Welk pick the weather out of a hat. Sunday was even worse, at least on the playing fields, where the Mets and the Rangers both lost on the same day, which is one of the major disadvantages you have with the overlapping of seasons in different sports. Lately it does no good for the fans of the local pinstripe franchise to gloat over the hapless Mets and their woeful 9-12 record, because at the moment, the Yankees are not doing any better themselves. The first round of the NHL playoffs saw the league-leading Boston Bruins eliminate the Montreal Canadiens in four straight games, and hard on their heels, the Rangers, the Devils and the Flyers all lost their series, dashing the playoff hopes of their disappointed fans. At church, we bid a fond farewell to the beloved music director of decades past, who went on to his heavenly reward, while at home, even one of our invisible cats slipped away from us. This week might have been one for the books, but it would not have been a good book, that's for sure, and in fact, if it had shoelaces, I'd be driving it over to the parking lot at work and throwing it over the electric wires, with the rest of the scarecrow's belongings, and good riddance. Of course, that might be just a little too ironic even for me, because after all, no one knows better than the dinosaurs and me that The Irony Age has long since passed.
Elle
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 9:30 PM
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