Lend Me Your Ears

Hello World,

Gosh, doesn't it seems like the month just started, and here we are, at the last weekend of September already, and where does the time go, I ask you that. I always say, once the kids go back to school, the year is basically over from that point, it's just a blur right up until New Year's Eve. The weather has been all over the map, like Comrade Mischka is away for two weeks in the Urals, and the replacement underlings are just throwing darts at a board instead. You'd never know that Friday was the official first day of autumn, inasmuch as it was about 90 degrees at the time with wilting humidity, and the air was so dense that you could write your name in it, which is not an innovation that has anything to recommend it as far as I can tell. At this point, I'm just about ready to wish the notorious Comrade would be coming back from his vacation already, because even though we know that the weather would be bad, at least it would be consistent, nyet?

Earlier in the week, I was having trouble with a program that called for Java Script, and it wouldn't run on my computer until I downloaded the latest version of it from our friends at Oracle. I wanted to see if that worked for other applications as well, so I went to visit our old friends at www.pogo.com, the home of online games of every imaginable description, to take it for a test drive. While there, I tried a few games that I had never seen before, including Word Whomp and Tumble Bees, which seemed simple enough, and with adorably childish graphics that would no doubt appeal to their target audience of game-playing youngsters. Therefore, it was with no small amount of consternation (and here, mortification would not be too strong a word) that I discovered that I was so bad at both of them, that a person might legitimately believe that I was not only illiterate, but had no understanding of the English language to start with. It was a humbling experience, I can tell you that. In fairness, it must be said that I have never done well under time pressure, as I can long since say with honesty that if someone ran up to me on the street, and shoved a microphone in my face, I would never in my life be able to tell them my name on the spot, much less my favorite color - or God forbid, answer any more challenging queries, like how many states there are in the country, or which side won the Civil War. So I did not cover myself with glory in my foray at the pogo game site, and my name (Guest15703) will not be retired with honors in the annals of Word Whomp and Tumble Bees, so don't bother to go there and check up on it. And please don't waste your time asking the other players on my team how I fared at Boggle Bash, because I'm sure they're all still laughing to this day, and I can't say that I blame them, alas.

On the home front, the contractors have accomplished great feats of engineering in their efforts to prevent our ramshackle porches from dis-connecting themselves completely from the rest of the house, and falling headlong into our neighbor's yard. Somehow they have managed to do this without even resorting to supernatural means of turning off the gravity in the area, so this is indeed a significant achievement. They continue to be popular with all of the neighborhood cats as well, and far from scaring them off with their heavy boots and noisy power tools, have probably attracted more than we had before they started. In fact, one day when they were packing up to leave, the ubiquitous Cinnamon (known far and wide as "Mooch" and for good reason, I can assure you) from next door blithely jumped into one of their cars, and was prepared to go home with the man and hope for the best. He had to disabuse her of this notion, since he already has cats at home, and managed to somehow get her out of his car, which is no easy task, and I ought to know, believe me. In light of these developments, I thought it was only fair to warn the neighbors that if any of their cats are missing, they should call our contractors.

Also on the subject of missing cats, our hopes were dashed for bringing into the fold the hypothetical kitten with the two different colored ears (that the contractors had claimed to see in our yard) and in unexpected fashion. I happened to be leaving for work one morning when the workers were on the front porch, and it came as a surprise to nobody when the ever-present Mooch trotted up the steps to supervise the proceedings as usual. "Here she is now," exclaimed one of them, "the kitten with the two different colored ears!" Thanks but no thanks, is all I have to say about that. Bill and I thought that was kind of a dirty trick, after we had gotten our hopes up. The thing about Mooch is that she's such a constant presence in our yard, and has been for so many years, that I can honestly say that we never noticed that she has two different colored ears, which the contractors found so remarkable. So that was one part of the construction project that came a cropper, and in the field of home renovations, we call that an "addition by subtraction."

Meanwhile at work, alert readers may recall the story of the giant electric turquoise temporary boilers that have been taking up space in our employee courtyard since 2001, in their hideous enormous boiler house, until the whole thing burned to the ground in October of last year, in a spectacular conflagration that was a media sensation far and wide. Among us old-timers, we expected it to be a long cold winter of no heat or hot water in our old rattle-trap of a building, since nobody would care if we froze to death at our desks, and it would probably take weeks for them to even notice. (Well, two weeks anyway, after the Payroll staff had died of frostbite, and nobody got paid.) And yet, it was the very next day that another temporary boiler (and why do they make these gigantic things this horrible electric turquoise, do you suppose?) was trucked into the area and wedged into the back of the courtyard, and hooked up around the burnt-out boilers that were still there, with all the heat and hot water that we could possibly want, and then some. We had to admit that we were impressed with their speed and efficiency, however grudgingly. Not so fast! It turns out that the newest replacement boiler was apparently the wrong type of boiler, the kind that uses home heating oil and not natural gas like all of the other boilers that we have on campus - although in any normal business, you would think that this would be the sort of obvious distinction that would be self-evident to anybody who was put in charge of ordering this thing, including the toddlers who were kicking my butt in Word Whomp, thanks not. But apparently this was beyond their capabilities at the employer of last resort, and normally I would say, what the heck.

Once again, not so fast! In these dismal days of skyrocketing oil prices, the hit we were taking for oil deliveries, compared to our regular costs for natural gas, were putting us in a financial hole that we would never climb out of, and as a non-profit organization, we're used to being the in the red, believe me. There's only one reason that I found out all of this, and that's because the Engineering department had to hurry up and distribute bid proposals to permanently replace the boilers once and for all, and sooner rather than later this time around. Suddenly, my phone started ringing off the hook, as every temperature control company in the world got wind of this project (it must be one of those public disclosure regulations for large community projects that are required to be published) and called Purchasing to get in on the action. The calls never stopped, and although it was a bit disconcerting that every Tom, Dick and Harry caller knew more about this than I did, at least I found out about this upcoming undertaking, in spite of the hospital management's best efforts to keep it from me. I can say with complete confidence that this is quite possibly the most popular thing we've ever done at the place since I've been there, as it seemed to get everyone's attention from all over creation, and made people sit up and take notice - whereas usually our profile on the wider scene is on a par with vacant lots or junk mail. In fact, the way things are going, I can tell you that if the hospital had two different colored ears, nobody would notice. In any case, I'd love to just stay here and keep on blathering, but I figure this would be a great time to go back and try my hand at Word Whomp again, after all the toddlers have already gone to bed.

Elle

Door Prize

Hello World,

So the second week of September has come and gone already, and you won't find me complaining about it, heaven knows. Since the last few weeks, I have a whole new standard for success, and I figure that any week without tornadoes, earthquakes or hurricanes is one to be commended, and certainly not taken for granted, that's for sure. I won't even cast aspersions on the weather, which went from 90 degrees all of last week with dripping humidity, suddenly to daytime highs in the 60's, and 50 degrees overnight that had us reaching for blankets and hot water bottles, by golly. It may be chilly, but it's been gloriously sunny and dry, and around here that means that all of the doors that were stuck shut in the dampness are now swinging open, and the ones that were too swollen to close, can now be latched with ease. The weather has been just the ticket for our very late roses, phlox and finally some straggly black-eyed Susans, and even the fall crocus and cyclamen have popped up to lend cheer to the landscape. The door to the summer may indeed be closing, but at least it's not being blown off its hinges or flooded over its frame like two weeks ago.

Now what may be new and exciting on the local dining scene, you may be wondering, and well may you wonder. For literally decades, Bill and I have gone to the same local diner every Friday night after work, for the same combination of appetizers that we love so much, but which would be too much trouble to make for ourselves at home. So we were understandably jittery when one of the waiters mentioned, I thought in a rather off-hand manner, that they were going to be closed for renovations, which might last up to 3 months. This was indeed a blow! Even worse, we were faced with the appalling prospect that this cozy but somewhat unpopular eatery might close for alterations and never actually open up again, and then where would we be, I ask you that. So we asked the waiter what the staff and other patrons would be doing in the interim, and he named a couple of other places that we could try for the duration. All of them had the disadvantage of being much farther away, and most were so crowded, cramped and noisy that there was no pleasure to eating there. Going some place different every week, we found the food hit-or-miss, and often the traffic and parking were so excruciating that we couldn't bring ourselves to go back.

So it was with joyful hearts when we first noticed the "Grand Opening" sign in front of our trusty old diner, and gaily waving pennants from all of the poles to welcome in a clamoring public, well, the two of us at least. And back we went on Friday as usual, and I can tell you, we soon discovered that we were not in Kansas anymore, Toto. We knew they had changed the name to BLD Diner (it stands for breakfast-lunch-dinner) and we weren't alarmed by what we considered a minor difference. [And I would tell you to feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at www.BLD-DINER.com and see for yourselves, however, unfortunately the site is still under construction and right now has nothing but their name and a "Coming Soon" note. It must be said that often these are the web design equivalent of "vapor ware," which is they give every indication that they will soon be up and running, but in fact, will never get any farther that what is there already, alas.] But when we first got there, at about our usual time, we couldn't help but notice that the new and improved parking lot was parked solid in every direction, compared to the emptiness we had come to expect. Inside, the once light and somewhat bland decor had given way to a more dark and edgy ambience, which might be considered chic, but never cozy. Every seat was taken, even at the counter, and as we gaped around, like a couple of six-headed polka-dot space aliens, we couldn't help but notice that we did not recognize one single solitary soul in the place - from the hostess to the waiters, bus boys, cooks and even other customers. It was like a Mission Impossible episode where they put something up on a spot and then try to convince the bad guys that it's been there all along, at least until somebody accidentally drops that John F. Kennedy half-dollar, and the jig is up. There is no punch line to this story, but it will come as a surprise to nobody that the new and supposedly improved menu does not include our favorite appetizers, and normally this is where I would be saying thanks so very much not, but frankly, words fail me.

Speaking of popularity, lately our property has been the scene of wall-to-wall contractors and their crews, tackling the unenviable job of shoring up our old sagging porches, or know the reason why. A logical person might think that bunches of big burly men in heavy work boots tramping around the yard would scare off the neighbors' cats and resident strays, always on the lookout for a free meal on our front porch, but apparently nothing could be further from the truth. The cats show up in droves as soon as the trucks hit the driveway, as it turns out the contractors couldn't be more popular with the neighborhood cats if they tried, and as odd as it sounds, the feeling is mutual. Rather than consider them a nuisance for being continually underfoot, the workers are infatuated with the lot of them, from the grittiest alley cat to the prissiest princess, and they can't wait to recount their whimsical antics like proud parents. Even the formidable she-devil from next door has won them over - and she's earned no great following around here, even in her own house, believe me - so it won't be long before our contractors are starting the Cinna-Mooch Fan Club, I shouldn't wonder, because they can't get enough of her. They're even on a first-name basis with two skittish strays that we've been feeding for months, who refuse to get anywhere near us, and apparently find this crowd of robust laborers more to their liking. Besides that, they claim to see cats regularly in our yard that we've never set eyes on, like an adorable kitten with two different colored ears. (Of course, there's always the possibility that they've been spending a little too much time in the "Hospitality Tent," as it were, so that can't be ruled out either.) All this time, we thought we would make a hit with the neighborhood kitties by putting out food for them, when all along, all we needed to do was hire a caravan of contractors instead.

So far, my absolute favorite part of the entire construction project has been, of course, a cat story that one of the contractors told me about working at another customer's house. (Whenever you meet other people with cats, you can always count on trading cat stories with them, and this no exception.) It seems that he was working with a different sub-contractor, and someone who had no pets, so didn't have any experience with them. The homeowner's biggest concern was that the workers would accidentally leave a door open, and her precious pussy would escape, so everyone was carefully instructed on the importance of keeping doors closed. This was "preaching to the choir" for the contractor and his cat-loving crew, but everyone realized the problem with the sub-contractor, whose lack of companion animals, they believed, would render him oblivious to the danger. This seemed to be borne out one day when they were wrapping up at the job-site, only to have the sub-contractor suddenly exclaim that he thought the cat had gotten out, and he forgot to go round it up and put it back inside. Whereupon he dashed headlong back into the yard, scooped up the cat from under the bushes - spitting and screeching and scratching with all its might - and threw it inside the front door, just barely closing the door ahead of its desperate attempt to escape. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and left with a clear conscience that disaster had been narrowly averted. That is, until the homeowner returned later and called the contractor to complain that, far from letting out her own little furry darling (who was sound asleep on the bed) somehow they had let IN some mysterious scruffy vagabond that she had never seen before, and had caused no end of havoc until they were able to shoo it back outside where it belonged. Ya gotta love it! Of course, around here we like to believe that good intentions count for something, but I think the moral here is that when it comes to contractors and cats, the Hospitality Tent should be avoided at all costs.

Elle

Toast of the Town

Hello World,

Well, there's no getting away from the fact that the Back-to-School season is well and truly upon us, and it would be impossible to miss the school buses and crossing guards all over town, where we haven't seen them all summer. Anyone who tried recently to do any shopping at Staples or other such retailers can tell you that the crowds there did much to cheer the hearts of the President's economic advisers, as you couldn't get near anyplace that was selling anything even remotely associated with school supplies. Since that category has unaccountably expanded these days - to include such items as candy, electronics, furniture, toys, appliances, cars and even wine - it pretty much covers just about anywhere you might have wanted to go, but didn't dare. So those of us with no back-to-school needs had to take a break from the stores out of self-protection for a couple of weeks, until things get back to normal on the retail scene after the buying frenzy has subsided into just another academic year. One thing I do know after Hurricane Irene, those kids will be going back to school with all the flashlights and batteries they could ever want, believe me - not to mention lunchboxes full of French toast, oui?

Monday was Labor Day, of course, and I hope that you were able to enjoy a nice relaxing three-day weekend that included resting from your labors, in the spirit of the legendary Samuel L. Gompers, and long may he wave, by golly. Around here, the Flag Brigade did another excellent job of flying the colors, upstairs and downstairs, and remembered to bring them back inside again before the weather became a hazard to them. It's true the local weather has been a lot better than in many other places, heaven knows, but it must be said that by the time the flags came back inside, they had both been wrapped completely around their poles, thanks not. And while it's always nice to have a day off from work, I'm sure everyone already knows what I think of those short weeks at work, and this one even worse than usual - since I came down with some sort of stomach bug that was going around, and found myself spending more time in the bathroom than at work, and once again, thanks so very much not. So it turned out to be a rather long and challenging week all around, and I was more than glad to see the tail-end of it on Friday, and that's putting it mildly. Right about now, I'm thinking that some of that back-to-school wine might not be such a bad idea after all, and garcon, toss in some of that French toast while you're at it.

Of course, everyone is tired of me picking on the local newspaper by now, just because they can't seem to put a whole sentence together that is grammatically correct, doesn't leave out any words, where everything is spelled right, and uses the right words to start with, and not just something that sounds close enough to the right word. Honestly, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when people had to actually know something in order to put out a newspaper, and not just toss any old thing together and throw it out on the streets in the face of an unsuspecting public. In this day and age of technology wonders, it's amazing to me that they continue to make these same kinds of routine errors week in and week out, as if the stories magically write themselves, and print themselves on paper, unseen or untouched by human hands. Or at least, human hands that belong to any English-speaking people anyway. Well, it's all too true that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, but I will say that these two items from last week really surprised me.

The first is from the Sports section, about a local high school athlete winning an award, and I will say right up front that I have no reason to blame the newspaper for this, however startling this caption may have appeared:

===============================

National gold medal-winning

fencer Jonah Shainberg of Rye,

and his coach Archil Lortkipanidze

===============================

Lortkipanidze??? What the heck kind of a name is Lortkipanidze??? They spelled it the same way numerous times in the accompanying article, so I have to assume that it's right, but it certainly got my attention, when I normally would not find much of interest in a story about high school fencing, believe me.

The next one is a personal favorite, and appeared as a sidebar in a column entitled: "Some Lawmakers Have Spotty Attendance Records." The sidebar was a short list of those legislators who had perfect attendance records, setting them apart from their more lackadaisical colleagues, and giving credit where it's due is always a virtue to be applauded. What set this apart was the headline of the sidebar, which I am reproducing verbatim, I assure you:

===========================

AF ;AILFN A;ILFN A;LDFNAFD

===========================

Ya gotta love it! Mind you, this is how the paper was actually printed and went out to their dozens of subscribers (or however many thousands they claim to have) and not just some slip-shod mock-up they fabricated to test the placement of the stories or whatnot. No, this actually hit the streets in this condition, which even the most ancient of civilizations, carving figures into papyrus reeds or clay tablets, and no technology of any kind at their disposal, would have easily avoided. I tell you, sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or cry. The reason that it's a personal favorite of mine (and probably why it leaped at me off the page in the first place) is that I often employ the same strategy of typing random letters, which I call a "place holder," in a spot where I need to have text that I haven't decided on yet. Mine always looks something like this - a;ldkjfa; ;lasdkjf a; jf;alsdkfj a; jfalskdjfa; fjalskdjf a;ljfalkdjfa - because those are the keys that my fingers are resting on anyway. But I will point out the big difference between me and the local newspaper is that I always go back later and type in the real text and take out the gobbledygook. This is something that the newspaper staff could learn - that is, if the paper didn't magically write itself and print itself on paper without any human intervention at any point along the way.

Meanwhile at work, we were all recently bombarded with a screaming press release about one of our sister institutions, which is named after a local family of philanthropists ("Mom and Pop's Nursing Home o' Quacks") that the headline assured us was about to "Benefit From Global Project." There was a picture with the Vice President o' Quacks and a representative of the project, and I admit that I couldn't resist having high hopes when I noticed this interesting caption: "MPNHQ was the beneficiary of Morgan Stanley's community commitment and their international corporate project - Global Volunteer Month." After all, Morgan Stanley is a multi-billion dollar world-wide finance conglomerate, and I would think the outcome of their global volunteer initiative would be something not only economically significant, but also a much-needed improvement that was previously out of the recipient's reach, before this magnanimous gesture. So you can imagine that I was more than a little surprised - and here, stupefied is not too strong a word - to read the following:

========================

Now after more than 50 man-hours of work

from 25 employees at the Westchester

Campus of Morgan Stanley,

MPNHQ patients, visitors and staff alike,

have seasonal decorations to adorn the doors

of the residents' rooms.

========================

Excuse me??? It took 25 employees 50 hours to make a box full of decorations to hang on the doors - gee whiz, could they spare it at Morgan Stanley? Heck, even the late great John D. Rockefeller himself used to give out dimes, he didn't have 25 people make door decorations for the poor. It actually goes on to say that it all began in 2010 when the Global Volunteer Month folks got in touch with the United Way for ideas about their project, and then really pulls out all the stops with this gushy finale: "United Way used their extensive experience to facilitate a marriage of resources, opportunity and need - one that made all involved winners, particularly the residents of MPNHQ, who are again reminded of the spirit of volunteerism, exemplified by this company's employees and are grateful for the cheery welcome the decorations provide everyone." Well, I'm sorry, but here you can all please give me a large break. I mean, if they had sent out a press release that a troop of Brownies had donated a box of door decorations that they made out of recycled newspapers and soda bottles as part of an Earth Day program, I would think that was adorable and wonderful. But once you trot out fiscal powerhouse Morgan Stanley and their Global Volunteer Month, then please don't toss me a box of decorations and expect me to get excited about it, for heaven's sake. In fact, I'm surprised that they didn't just give us a box full of flashlights and batteries that the employees had stockpiled for Hurricane Irene, and have United Way throw in a bunch of their plastic lapel pins, and call it a day. Of course, with our luck, they would have given us a box full of left-over French toast instead, non?

Elle

Vive La France

Hello World,

This may not be true everywhere, but many of us in the local area have much to be thankful for, after the frenzied media blitz that was Hurricane Irene down-sized instead to Tropical Storm Irene, and basically skipped right over us with no appreciable damage, except for some higher than normal high tides that spilled over the most low-lying areas. The winds were strong but not ferocious, and no trees or large branches came down, even in our neighborhood full of old trees. We never lost our electricity, the roof didn't leak, even the basement wasn't any wetter than usual, and that's saying something in this soggy old place. Early on Sunday morning, when I was expecting it to start getting worse according to the weather reports, it was already basically all over, and many of us were wondering what all the fuss was about. Of course, everyone knows that my mother was a Girl Scout leader, and their motto is "Be Prepared," so I figure it's better for people to be ready for the worst, whether it turns out that way or not. And I can tell you that the President's economic advisers must have been delirious at the way the bottled water and generators were flying off the shelves, not to mention, batteries, toilet paper and - believe it or not - cars lining up for blocks to buy gasoline, just like 1973 all over again. So I guess we could say that Irene was a boom in the economy but a bust as a hurricane, which may just be the best of both worlds. As for all of those people who ran out to stock up on milk, bread and eggs - well, I guess they'll be eating French toast for a month now.

Meanwhile at work, on a weather-related topic, you can imagine that we were all pleased as punch when we received a memo from the President of the hospital, thanking us for our efforts during the recent emergency. Incomprehensibly, it actually starts out by saying, "Despite the first hurricane to strike the New York region in more than a century ... " Now, I happen to know this gentleman personally has been working at the employer of last resort for over 20 years, and before that at other area facilities, so he didn't just drop out of a space ship and know nothing about the local weather for the last few decades. So I'm thinking it would come as a surprise to those of us who very vividly remember (and in fact, lived through) numerous major hurricanes such as Camille, Agnes, Belle, Bob, Floyd, Gloria - and the granddaddy of them all, The Great Hurricane of 1938, which slammed smack into Wall Street, and really showed that wall who was boss, by golly. So where he comes up with this "first hurricane in a century" malarkey is certainly a mystery to me, although at home, we tend to explain these types of mental lapses by supposing that someone has spent too much time in the "Hospitality Tent," and that's not just a lot of hurricane punch, believe me.

Speaking of tents, while everyone else on Saturday was at the stores stocking up on hurricane supplies, we headed out to the luxurious Old Westbury Gardens on Long Island for the 51st annual Scottish Festival, which they promised would go on as planned, "rain or shine." Well, there wasn't much shining, but there was mostly just a smattering of rain, and it turned out to be not a bad day after all. We brought my sister Diane along, since she had volunteered to help out at the Island Harvest booth, and she pitched in gamely in spite of the weather. It certainly wasn't as crowded as the last time we went, so we were allowed to park on the grounds itself, and not have to take the shuttle bus from a nearby elementary school, which was much more convenient this way. The skirl of bagpipes was in the air, but they also had many other entertainment offerings, such as a bluegrass band, puppet shows, country dancers, folk music, storytellers, roving troubadours, and even Irish step dancing. Unfortunately, our plans to see our favorite Celtic fusion band, Mac Talla M'or, came a cropper when we arrived too late for their 11:30 show, and they canceled the 2:30 show out of sheer Irene-o-phobia, when we would have supposed these lads and lasses to be made of sterner stuff. It did turn out to be a much scaled-back version of the regular festival, as many of the food or merchandise vendors stayed home, but there was a plucky camaraderie among the tattered remnant, who were determined to give it their all in spite of the less than ideal conditions. Of course, it's got to take more than a hurricane to keep us from buying souvenirs, not to mention, snacks and raffle tickets, so we were glad to find some things to our liking among the limited choices. Alert readers may have already guessed the punch line to this story, where we assuaged our disappointment over not seeing Mac Talla M'or by having a late lunch at Denny's in Levittown, which for us is a special delight that never grows old. And rather than complaining about the pre-hurricane frenzy, I think it's only fair to point out that as a result of that very hysteria, we were able to travel over the Throgs Neck Bridge at no charge, both ways, and with tolls in the amounts they are nowadays, that's a veritable bonanza, pardner.

We also got in touch with my cousin Cheryl who lives nearby, and has seen many of these festivals over the years, as her husband's company provides the audio-visual services on location, and here is normally where I would be inviting everyone to feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site and see for yourself, but I will say that if anybody can find a web page for these people, well, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Cheryl is as Scottish as I am, on our fathers' side of the family, but she also has some French heritage on her mother's side. Now, it must be said that Cheryl doesn't begrudge the Scots their fun, but she wonders why they don't have French festivals and games too, like the ubiquitous Irish and Scottish festivals that populate the weekends throughout the year in every corner of the country. After all, she reasons, if you're going to go someplace and have ethnic food, wouldn't you rather have Crepes Suzette instead of Haggis? Escargots rather than meat pies? Bouillabaisse rather than fish and chips? And not to mention, all those great French pastries, I pointed out with enthusiasm. Personally, I think she may be onto something there, and I can envision a full range of competitions, such as mime contests, tossing the beret, tug-of-baguette, wine bottle juggling, and of course, rudeness and insults in both amateur and professional categories. And let's not forget French kissing, although the judging for that might be a little complicated, I'm thinking. There would be strolling accordions to regale the bourgeoisie with the strains of La Marseillaise and Mademoiselle from Armentieres, while contentedly sipping Champagne and savoring sorbet under their parasols, in their finest haute couture, along with their impeccably groomed French poodles, of course. They would also have booths where experts would conclusively prove that French toast, French fries and French horns have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with France, and never have, eh bien. And instead of little girls in plaid, jumping around and stamping their feet, you could look forward to actual Can-Can dancers putting on a show of high kicks and petticoats, and that would probably be worth the price of admission all by itself, and that's not just a lot of zut alors, believe me. So I say, break out the napoleons and eclairs, brush up on your Voltaire, and let's get this Franco-Fest underway with all the liberty, equality, and fraternity that we can muster. I may not have any French blood in me, but I can tell you if there's pastries involved, then I'm more than ready to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with mes amis and shout, "Vive La France!" After all, I live in a house with French doors, so that has to count for something, or my name isn't -

Mademoiselle from Armentieres