Butt Out

Hello World, Well, I said it would happen, and it's true - you just blink, and suddenly the year is half over already, and that's exactly where we find ourselves this weekend. Saturday is the 30th, and when it comes to June, that's all she wrote, so we'll be ushering in July on Sunday, and more than half of the year gone right along with it. I have no doubt that everyone else is not like me, with nothing to show for it, but it's still a sobering thought, I don't mind saying, especially for those of us going on vacation pretty darned soon, and woefully unprepared for it. At this rate, I'll be camping under the stars with nothing but the clothes on my back - which at least would have the advantage of making it much easier to pack, and a whole lot less dirty laundry when I get back, by golly. Of course, everyone knows that I'm always happy to set the record straight, and maintain that high standard of pinpoint accuracy that we consistently aim for around here, and I ought to know. I have it on good authority (with thanks to our resident research maven) that a person can't just go around and call any old thing a "heat wave" if they want to, no matter how hot it is, because apparently there are very strict meteorological rules that govern such terms, and the ordinary public should be warned off tossing these words around loosely. It seems that in order to be considered an actual legitimate "heat wave," it requires at least 3 consecutive days of 90 degree temperatures or higher, and anything else (fewer days, lower temperatures, or not in a row) simply doesn't qualify, regardless of whether people are dropping dead in the streets, and the air is so thick you could plug a hole with it, thanks not. So we learned something today, which is not to say that my two poor addled brain cells (which I have renamed Miami "Heat" Vice and Amber "Wave" of Grains for the occasion) will have any likelihood of remembering that the next time the issue arises, in spite of good intentions to the contrary - and we all know where that road goes paved with good intentions, after all, and our hand-baskets right along with it. Speaking of pinpoint accuracy, that was something that seemed to be noticeably lacking in a recent broadcast email to the employees at all of our facilities, regarding a prestigious appointment for our CEO, which deserved the highest accolades, but instead was greeted with this startling subject: ============ Congraultations! ============ If you try typing that into your spell-checker, you will find that it doesn't think much of that as a word, and I can't say that I blame it one bit. In fact, if your spell-checker has any competence in the English language at all (and is not saddled with the likes of Miami "Heat" Vice and Amber "Wave" of Grains like I am) it will probably correct that for you all by its little own lonesome and with no trouble at all, to "congratulations" instead, which would have been a handy feature for whoever sent out that email, but was apparently more than could be expected of their computer, alas. In fact, it reminded me a lot of a full-page ad in our local newspaper, from our friends at Brewster Honda for their upcoming holiday sales event, with this blaring headline in screaming 2-inch type: ========================== DECLARE YOUR INDEPENDANCE FROM HIGH PRICES! ========================== That sound you hear is the aggrieved Founding Fathers spinning in their collective graves, and that's not just a lot of e pluribus unum, by George. On the other hand, it's possible that the hipsters at Brewster Honda were planning to do the Indepen-Dance, and party like it's 1776, all over again. Also not saying what they mean (one hopes!) I swear I heard the following announcement last week on the radio - ====================================== Sir Paul McCartney will be appearing at the Summer Olympics in London, closing the opening ceremonies ====================================== Well, if that's not a classic case of going "up the down staircase," then I just don't know what is, and even Sir Paul might not know if he's coming or going, especially if it was after "a hard day's night," I shouldn't wonder. Going in a different, but no better direction, is this vendor listing in our hospital computer, where it seems like the horoscope computer has been running amok - ============================ Johnson & Johnson Hospital Services Bank of America Lock Box Operations 6000 Feldwopod Road College Park, GA 30349 ============================ Frankly, if there's such a thing as "Feldwopod" Road anywhere in this country, much less our peanut-loving friends in the Peachtree state, I'll eat my hat. Also having a little too much over-enthusiasm on the keyboard, we get the following item from a colleague in the Garden State: ================================ On another note, but of the same tune, we have a deli here in Hackensack that sells Sandwishes ================================ Actually, I think that sounds delightfully serendipitous, sort of the "fairy godmother" of food, which is something that I'm sure we could all use now and again. At least it's better than this disturbing image from a review of Property Brokers on HGTV - ================================ A couple must rely on the Property Brokers to help them see beneath their new home's dirt and grim to recognize its true potential ================================ Well, that certainly doesn't sound very appealing, and truth to tell, would not be improved all that much by changing "grim" to "grime," as I'm sure they intended. Meanwhile, a different listing for House Hunters on the same network was another holiday for the spell-checker: ===================================== A military brat wants to settle down in the suburbs, but his girlfriend rather purchase a trendy apartment in the city ===================================== No, the spell-checker can't help you if you just plain leave words out, like "would" in this sentence, that could have gone a long way to helping it make a lot more sense. That is, if you didn't want to sound like Tarzan, or maybe Tonto, leaving out words on a regular basis, like English was not only a foreign language to you, but enemy territory to boot. And speaking of The Lone Ranger's faithful companion, even a perfunctory search of the legendary warrior turns up this lightning bolt out of the wild blue yonder - ============================================ Jay Silverheels was born Harold J. Smith on the Six Nations of the Grand River First Nation, near Brantford, Ontario, Canada, the son of A.G.E. Smith, a Canadian Mohawk Chief and military officer. ============================================ Well, that was certainly a horse of a different (paint) color that I wasn't expecting, and I dare say, would have thrown Clayton Moore for one heck of a loop, right off of his Hi-Yo Silver Bullet Band besides, in a speedy crowd of lust - er, that is, a speedy cloud of dust. Also not resting on their laurels (one supposes) I found the following full-page ad on the back of the current issue of CFO magazine, and if anyone can make any sense out of this in any way whatsoever, well, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. It says things like this in bold print: ========================================= Client success. Custom built by Macquarie. [ Here it has the names of some clients, such as AIG, Osmose, Cumulus, VDOT, Encompass and Sonneborn - plus their logo, which looks for all the world like a giant life saver candy ] We fit solutions to clients. Not the other way around. At Macquarie, we recognize there's no single blueprint for success. By custom-building transactions for each unique situation, we're delivering innovative, client-centered solutions. macquarie.com/blueprint FORWARD thinking ========================================== I have to tell you that I wish our friends at Macquarie much continued success, but the fact is that I'm not even in the ballpark with what their company does, for heaven's sake. I mean, to say that they're "custom-building transactions" and "delivering innovative solutions" is just a lot of gibberish, and in no way identifies whatever the heck it is that they actually do for a living, or even what industry it is that they're having all this client success in to start with. Do we possibly think they might be consultants? Perhaps architects? Or maybe financiers? Who knows! Heck, they could be their clients' cosmetologists or astrologers for all we know, and these so-called client-centered solutions could be hair extensions, nail wraps or pierced eyebrows, for all anybody can tell from this ad. In fact, if their "life saver" is any indication, they might actually be in the business of treating hemorrhoids, which would certainly give new meaning to the "custom-building transactions" part of their message, and that's not just a well-deserved kick in the old scuttlebutt, believe me. Anyway, it was not the greatest week in the history of high-level communications, and that's putting it mildly, so that it would make even Miami "Heat" Vice and Amber "Wave" of Grains look good by comparison, and that's saying something, let me tell you. Now, in the interests of speed, I'll just ..... out ..... words ..... and there ..... congraultations and grim ..... sandwishes in Feldwopod ..... independance from ceremonies ..... dirty laundry, so that's my story and I'm sticking to it, or my name isn't - Harold J. Smith

Mad Cap

Hello World, Happy Summer! Wednesday was the official First Day of Summer, and the way things had been going around here, you would expect it to be about 50 degrees and raining like the rest of the time. Not so fast! It seems that our old nemesis Comrade Mischka and his evil minions at the Kremlin's infernal weather machine had a few other tricks up their collectivist sleeves, and instead, we found ourselves in the throes of a sultry 2-day heat wave, with temperatures suddenly in the 90's, and wilting humidity to boot. So as far as a first day of summer, this one really lived up to its name for a change, and made people long for beaches, lemonade, watermelon and hammocks, not necessarily in that order. In fact, we took advantage of the conditions to head to our local Carvel ice cream store, where their "Wednesday is Sundae" offer means that we can each get a dish of their yummy hot fudge sundaes, and only pay for one of them, which is the kind of bargain I can live with, that's for sure. They were doing a land-office business at the joint on Wednesday, believe me, with people screaming for ice cream on every side and no let-up. We were glad for a cool treat to ward off the sweltering heat, and about as fine a way to usher in those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer as we could think of. And for the record, I would just like to say, "I love Mother Russia." Of course, last Sunday was Father's Day, and a perfect time to recognize all of the wonderful men in our lives, and father figures of all types, for their dedication, fortitude, integrity and accomplishments, that make our lives better, easier, happier and richer in so many ways. The weather here was glorious for a change, and simply ideal for whatever plans that dear old dad might have dreamed up for the occasion. Around the house, the cats chose to get Bill a couple of trash cans for his special day, although I would advise against reading too much into that in the way of editorial comment. While it might appear obvious as a good old-fashioned left-handed brick-bat when it comes to gift-giving, I can assure you that it's still way better than their personal favorites, which would be catnip mice and Fancy Feast, in spite of Bill's decided lack of interest in these particular treats. So I hope that Sunday was indeed a red-letter day for all of the men out there, from the greatest of the great, all the way down to the average schnook, and everybody in between. Or as one chromosome said to another, "It's a 'Y' thing." Well, it's almost the end of June already, believe that or not, and we all certainly know what that means, by golly. Or should I say, holly. Yes, it's time for the Christmas 2012 music catalog to show up at church, from our friends at Brentwood Benson Music Publishers, and not a moment too soon to get into the ho-ho-holiday spirit of the season, a mere six months ahead of time. Of course, if my church is planning to perform one of their 60-minute dramatic musicals with four-part harmony and full orchestra (we're not) I can see where we might need 6 months to beat that into shape before we foist it on an unsuspecting public in December. But there are also pages and pages full of what they describe as "Ready to Sing Christmas," with the implication that we could start singing it right this minute, and frankly, the sound of Christmas carols in June is just too much for me to bear the thought of. Also not resting on their sum-sum-summertime laurels, I think it was the same day that I received a 2013 calendar and assortment of what they refer to as "holiday greeting cards" from the over-stimulated elves at Positive Promotions - although since these particular cards appear to be awash with glittering trees, reindeer, and more holly berries than you could shake a peppermint stick at, it's hard to imagine any other holiday that these greetings would be considered appropriate for, at least from the point of view of their supposed non-Christian recipients. So here's a big fat summer solstice raspberry to the folks at Brentwood Benson and Positive Promotions, not to mention a few rousing choruses of the Bah Humbug Song for good measure. And which, I might add, if nobody has written that song yet, it's obviously not too soon to start, and that's not just the egg nog talking, believe me. Meanwhile, in other updates more appropriate to the month of June, it came as a surprise to practically nobody when the NBA dream team Miami Heat ousted the gritty Thunder in the finals, taking only 5 games to capture the trophy - albeit five very close games that could have easily gone either way. This is Miami's second title since 2005, and the first for the legend-in-the-making known far and wide as King James, earning a well-deserved playoff MVP in the process. So now all the winter sports are well and truly over for the season - in spite of the holiday music and greeting cards to the contrary - and nothing left to console desolate fans but baseball and more baseball, from now until September. Now that the King and his court have galloped off into the sunset, is it too early to start thinking about Lin-sanity once again? I think not! Alert observers in our viewing public may have noticed the winsome Zooey Deschanel (star of the hit CBS sitcom "New Girl") in a very entertaining commercial for the new Siri function on the Apple iPhone 4S [ for anyone who hasn't seen it, feel free to watch it at your leisure on YouTube, where it's a runaway success - Zooey Deschanel iPhone 4S/Siri commercial (HD) - YouTube ] as we witness her talking into her cell phone and it performs all sorts of wonderful tasks instantly and at her fingertips, like finding local restaurants, providing the current weather conditions, and setting reminders for important items. Well, far be it from me to cast aspersions on the fickle genius that is modern technology, but I'm here to say, don't you believe it. Bill has a snazzy new iPhone 4, and it has a welter of handy features, and is capable of remarkable activities, sometimes when you least expect it. We have tried this "talk command" function numerous times, and I can assure you that the results can only be described as the polar opposite of Zooey's engaging commercial, in just about every way imaginable. Here is what you say: "Call Donna at work." Here is what it says: "Playing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' by Rimsky-Korsakov." When you say: "Find Wal-Mart." Then it says: "Send text message to Arthur." You say: "Play 'Summertime Blues'." It says: "Calling Ted Jorgensen." (Inasmuch as Ted was the architect on our long-completed porch project, and it could be midnight when we're playing with this particular application, it's only a lucky thing that the Cancel button is nearby, or we'd be on our way to becoming pretty darned unpopular, and pretty darned quick, I can tell you that.) So the enchanting Zooey Deschanel notwithstanding, around our house, this is what we consider the smart phone version of Mad Libs, and they're welcome to it. In fact, I just asked it to please call Comrade Mischka to tell him that I love Mother Russia, so naturally it said: "Calling LeBron James to wish him Merry Christmas." Ho-ho-ho! Elle

Key Words

Hello World, Well, you can believe me when I say that even those of us who don't trust the malevolent spirit of Affirmed as far as we can throw it, like me, certainly didn't see that one coming, that's for sure. I mean, the poor horse didn't even make it to the big race in the first place, much less get a chance to win or at least limp off the field a heroic failure, alas. They tell me the powers behind I'll Have Another made the prudent decision to retire the colt after winning the Kentucky Derby and Preakness Stakes, rather than risk hurting him and the other horses in the race, by running him in the Belmont with a leg injury. I'm sure that I speak for everyone concerned when I say that we can all get behind this wise and magnanimous gesture, to protect life and limb of everybody involved, while taking the high road, the long view, and the sensible approach under the circumstances. But they're not fooling me one bit, I can tell you that. No, no, I have long since seen Affirmed's dastardly handiwork from the great beyond, more times than I care to recollect, working its fiendish magic behind the scenes with a ruthless precision that is chilling to behold. So the owners are free to spout whatever fairy tales they care to concoct for the occasion, but they'll never convince me that they came up with this idea entirely on their own, and without any supernatural intervention of any kind. Frankly, that's just nothing but a lot of horsefeathers, and I'm not buying it. But at least I'll Have Another went out on top, and the evil ghost of Affirmed didn't get his hooks into him while he was running, or anything even more diabolical. In fact, they had a very nice retirement ceremony for the young star (who probably wondered what all the fuss was about) and was given the honor of leading the post parade for the Belmont Stakes, which was a fine send-off for his return to California. So without the top two contenders in the race (the runner-up at the previous two races, Bodemeister, had not been entered in the Belmont to start with - a move that his owners might have regretted later, once I'll Have Another pulled out) it really became a wide open field for anybody to come along and win it, and no reason for any interference from Affirmed across the great divide, or any other previous Triple Crown winners for that matter. The handicappers settled on Dullahan as the consolation favorite, but it turned out to be the return of the prodigal Union Rags, just nipping Paynter at the wire, and Dullahan nowhere in sight. Way back in the beginning of May, Union Rags had been the heavy favorite to win the Kentucky Derby, but he finished a disappointing 7th, and as a result, wasn't entered in the Preakness at all. Perhaps helping his cause in the Belmont was a change of riders, with the veteran John Velazquez in the saddle, who we all remember from last year's upset win aboard Animal Kingdom in the Kentucky Derby, when the favorite Uncle Mo was a last-minute scratch. It's probably a good thing that there's no "jockey curse" equivalent of Affirmed's steely grip on the Triple Crown curse, or I'm thinking that poor John Velazquez would be in big trouble. In other sports disasters, the weekend subway series against the Yankees did nothing to enhance the Mets position in the standings, in fact, the three straight losses sent them tumbling into a woeful third, a full 4-1/2 games out of first place, thanks not, when previously they had been knocking at the very door of leading their division. Across the municipal divide, Da Bombers inched to within a 1/2 game of the top in their division, and hurdled over the pesky Orioles in the process. In an interesting O. Henry-like twist, the plucky Amazin's went on to sweep Tampa Bay out of first and clear the way for the Yankees to take over the top spot, while the Yanks were beating up on Atlanta, and giving the Mets a chance to climb over them into second. I guess that's why they say it's an ill wind that blows no good, although as long as the unquiet spirit of Affirmed is still rumbling around, I'm not so sure about that. On the frozen front, it's really true that the scrappy LA Kings went on to win the Stanley Cup over the New Jersey Devils in 6 games, becoming the first 8th-seeded team in NHL history to accomplish this feat, since they first started swatting pucks around with sticks back when the dinosaurs and I were young, Maggie. (Of course, this was way before the invention of the wheel, so there was no Zamboni to clear the ice, and it was a real chore to push that woolly mammoth around the ice in between periods, I can tell you.) As a matter of fact, the Los Angeles team was admitted to the NHL in the great expansion of 1967, and this is their first Stanley Cup in franchise history, including the years that the superlative Wayne Gretzky played there, from 1988 to 1996, so this was really a monumental event for the organization and its euphoric legion of fans. And frankly, the dinosaurs and I thought that the picket lines of unemployed woolly mammoths were just entirely out of place, for heaven's sake. Meanwhile on the hard wood, the NBA finals came down to the unlikely Oklahoma City Thunder and the all-too-likely Miami Heat, although it took 7 tough games for Miami to get past the Celtics, so being in the finals was no sure thing this time around. Professional basketball is new to Oklahoma (although the team is not all that new, being the former Seattle SuperSonics, who relocated to the Midwest in 2008) and the fans have turned out in force to cheer their players, even camping outside of the arena overnight during the playoffs, in a show of support that speaks volumes. (Even at the height of Lin-Sanity in The Big Apple, you would never catch even the most ardent Knicks fans sleeping on the sidewalks outside of Madison Square Garden, by golly.) On the other hand, they didn't have picket lines full of unemployed woolly mammoths to deal with either. Of course, everyone knows that Thursday was Flag Day, a fine time to show a little love to the good old red, white and blue, and long may she wave, by jingo. Around the old homestead, the admittedly erratic Flag Brigade did a creditable job flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, and remembered to take them back in again later, which is no foregone conclusion for this particular ritual, and I ought to know. Unlike the erstwhile Decoration Day on May 30, the weather on the 14th was fine for flag-waving, with plenty of sunshine and blue skies, and no rain in the forecast to threaten Old Glory's time to shine. So the neighborhood was improved with patriotic hues for the day, at least in our little corner of the world, and the star-spangled banner was the king of the hill for its own special holiday. And that's not just a lot of rockets' red glare, believe me. And speaking of the national anthem, of course, even the most wayward schoolchild remembers the fabled Francis Scott Key, the American lawyer, author and amateur poet who penned the words to the star-spangled banner, and then set it to a popular tune of the day - and the rest, as they say, is history, and they weren't just whistling Dixie, even if they wanted to. Well, for all of you fans out there of the twilight's last gleaming, it took my entire life to just find out something that I never knew before, and I can't help but wonder that this hasn't been more widely circulated, so that it wasn't such a big historical mystery, like the Loch Ness monster or whatever happened to Pink Lady & Jeff, for instance. It turns out that a distant relative of the famous anthem-writer was the equally famous scribbler F. Scott Fitzgerald (and even us wayward schoolchildren can recall his Great Gatsby, either with love or loathing) which in retrospect, seems so obvious that it's a wonder that it never suggested itself at any time previously. In fact, his actual full name was Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, even though he was born 50 years after his famous namesake had gone on to his final reward, and I would think that the family relationship would have been more publicly acknowledged during Fitzgerald's career, so that everybody would have already long since known about it, and I wouldn't just stumble across it by accident 100 years later, and wonder where this had been my whole life. I guess somewhere in the great beyond, Francis Scott Key and Affirmed are having a big fat laugh at our expense, and frankly, my advice to the woolly mammoths would be not to turn their backs on either of them, or the Great Gatsby either, for that matter. Say, is that O. Henry that I hear whistling Dixie? Elle

Men At Work

Hello World, Well, this is the weekend when we all might see history being made, or once more, thanks to the malevolent spirit of Affirmed, we could instead party like it's 1978 all over again. It all depends on whether the scrappy I'll Have Another can beat the odds, survive the curse, and somehow hold off the evil ghost of Affirmed to win the Belmont, and be the first Triple Crown winner in more than three decades and counting. This hard-charging colt has shown what he can do in the Derby and Preakness, but the longer length of the Belmont, plus the long layoff between races, has proved the undoing of countless horses before him, even without Affirmed's dastardly handiwork from the great beyond. So while the bettors will be all a-flutter, the media frenzy will be at full-tilt, and the spectators will all be agog - as much as I would wish I'll Have Another every success, I would be very surprised if Affirmed's hold on the last Triple Crown would give way at this point. Speaking of history being made, it was all that and more last week when the ace of the Mets pitching staff, Johan Santana, recorded the very first no-hitter in franchise history, going all the way back to the bad old days of 1962, as their long-suffering fans can attest. This no-no drought has encompassed more than 8,000 ballgames over the decades, plus numerous elite pitchers, such as Tom Seaver, Dwight Gooden and David Cone, some of whom went on to achieve no-hitters with other teams later. So here in their 50th glorious anniversary year, the first no-hitter finally hits the books, to the delight of generations of their faithful fans, who as the saying goes, can now die in peace, amen. In fact, even long-time announcer Gary Cohen, who called the historic game on television, when asked later if he thought he would ever see a Mets no-hitter in his life, replied simply, "No." An interesting sidelight to the momentous occasion was that this was also Santana's first no-hitter in his career, and at 33 years of age now, he is certainly no spring chicken, and has played for other teams where such a feat would not have been out of the question. So here's a great big Hearts-of-Queens cheer for the very first Mets no-hitter in history, and their ace hurler, Johan Santana - who the pundits have christened "NOHAN" in honor of his accomplishment. Somewhere I can hear the irrepressible phantom of the late, great Tug McGraw saying, "Ya gotta believe!" Meanwhile on the local sports scene, all that matters to anyone in this area is the latest recurrence of inter-league play, with the Yankees and Mets squaring off for bragging rights around the boroughs, and devil take the hind-most. Unlike many other years since the introduction of inter-league play, when one or the other team is rattling around in the cellar of futility and stinking up the joint, this time around, both teams are contending for the top spot in their respective divisions, so these games actually mean something for a change, and more than just the entertainment value of cross-town rivalries. Here is normally where I would say, "May the best team win," but we bleed Mets blue in our house, and U.S. Steel - excuse me, I mean the Yankees - certainly don't need any help from me, or Ring Lardner for that matter. (With apologies to Joe E. Lewis, playing the Liberty Valance role in this scenario.) So it's the junior franchise that we'll be pulling for, and hoping for the best. In fact, three more no-hitters would be nice, I don't mind saying, and thank you, Tug McGraw, wherever you are. And while we're on the topic of entertainment value, in the flood of summer blockbuster movies out now, Bill and I were sucked back into the theaters last week, to see the latest installment of the "Men In Black" series, this one being the third film of the group. We had seen the first two and liked them (can anyone actually believe that the first one came out in the dark ages of 1997???) so we were looking forward to it, especially in 3-D, which can make anything seem even more stupendous. I will say that this one certainly delivers the goods, and the special effects are so perfectly rendered as to seem almost effortless and positively mundane, as hard as that might be to believe. The story is interesting, and features an extended flashback sequence with Josh Brolin playing the young Tommy Lee Jones part in a pitch-perfect performance that will really get your attention and then some. Once again, our favorite part of the experience was the concession stand's Freschetta pizza, and if this is all part of a grand scheme by the President's economic advisers to make us go to the movies more often, I have to say, that it's certainly working like a charm so far. Heck, at this point, I'll go see a Communist propaganda documentary about tractors, as long as I can have pizza with it, by golly. Another thing not to be missed, if you haven't already seen the new "Sherlock" on PBS as part of its Masterpiece Mystery collection, by all means, please use whatever technology options you have at your disposal to get your hands on it without delay. This classy mini-series is an updated version of the vintage Arthur Conan Doyle detective stories with the dishy Benedict Cumberbatch as a modern-day re-interpretation of the renowned sleuth, and the endearing Martin Freeman as his long-suffering assistant Dr. John Watson. The producers have taken the original stories and made them relevant for today, with technological and cultural advances never dreamed of in the author's lifetime, while still remaining true to the spirit of the characters and situations. It is lavishly produced with expensive sets and impressive gadgets - but unlike sleepy British costume dramas, is filmed with a fast-paced gritty realism, that is edgy and intense, and full of jump cuts that keep you on the edge of your seat even when it seems like nothing is happening. The stories leap off the screen and grab you by the lapels, as the duo bounces from one amazing adventure to another, in a battle of wits against the forces of evil, where you can't help but feel sorry for the poor over-matched forces of evil, actually. The episodes are exquisitely written and intellectually deep, far beyond the average programming on television, certainly nowadays, and will easily leave anyone in the dust who is not paying careful attention at every moment. Each show pops with intelligence, wit and genuine camaraderie among the characters that is a joy to watch and a feast for the senses. There are a limited number of these programs, but each one is a gem, and although I can't force anybody to watch them, I would if I could, believe me. I can also tell you that a current online search for Benedict Cumberbatch will reveal that he was recently voted The World's Sexiest Man in a poll by The Sun, easily besting his nearest rival, soccer star David Beckham, by more than twice as many votes. At which accolade, the self-effacing Cumberbatch declared: "I am barely the sexiest man in my flat and I'm the only guy living there." Frankly, I don't think even the late great Tug McGraw could improve upon that, Watson. Elle

Speed Bump

Hello World, Happy June! It's hard to believe that we're getting to the midway part of the year already, and if you're anything like me, nothing to show for it, I don't mind saying. Next thing you know, school will be out, and summer will be upon us in earnest, with all that implies in the way of seasonal fun and frivolity for all. Speaking of fun and frivolity, it was all that and more on the AOL Welcome Screen recently, with two stories of the "head-shaking and eye-rolling" variety, that alternately make you want to laugh or weep, and shrieking uncontrollably would not be out of the question. The first headline launched this opening salvo: [[ Baby Gets Surprise of His Life ]] about a video clip that had caught the public's fancy and was spreading like wildfire through cyberspace. Inasmuch as the lad in question was a mere 2 years old, I can't help but think the phrase "surprise of his life" could not be less appropriate, since for at least the first half of his life, everything would have been a surprise to him, including being born in the first place. Next up was a heart-warming tale from the TV sitcom annals - [[ "Facts of Life" Star Resurfaces ]] complete with a picture of the actress they referred to as Mindy Cohen. Heck, I never watched the show, and even I know her name is actually Mindy Cohn, which even a cursory search would have revealed in an instant. Personally, I would have had my red pencil all over both of those flubs, but as the moldy old blonde joke goes, I've already got too much White Out on my monitor and can't see a thing as it is. Of course, it was just days ago that the nation celebrated Memorial Day weekend, with more parades, ceremonies, speeches, military salutes and festivals than you could shake a star-spangled banner at, by jingo. Monday was a holiday for many of us, and the Flag Brigade did an admirable job flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, and even better, remembered to take the flags back inside later - which is something that we don't take for granted around here, that's for sure, with the last two lonely addled brain cells of the Flag Brigade (which I have renamed Barbara Frietchie and Francis Scott Key for the occasion) not always to be relied upon for their memory skills, heaven knows. The plan was to also put the flags out on Wednesday the 30th, which is traditional Memorial Day (or as the dinosaurs and I recall it fondly as Decoration Day from the ancient mists of long forgotten history, now lost to posterity, and more's the pity, I'm sure) but unfortunately, the weather was too threatening to chance it, so Old Glory stayed inside all day, on the theory of better safe than sorry, and I think it goes without saying, long may it wave. Just go ahead and ask Barbara Frietchie if you don't believe me. Now in this area, Memorial Day weekend is also renowned for my sister's illustrious BBQ of lore and legend, still going strong in its 40th historic year, and attracting guests from all over the wide world, as well as mysterious galaxies from the farthest reaches of outer space. The weather was partly sunny but sweltering for the event (which was still better than at home, where apparently it poured rain all the livelong day) that in no way derailed the participants from enjoying the food, folks and fun on every side, or in every way, shape and form, including some alien dimensions that have yet to be recognized on this planet. Of course, there's always plenty of food and snacks, plus an almost unlimited variety of beverages to suit any taste, just perfect for relaxing in the shade and socializing. For the more energetic, there are games and activities galore, as well as arts and crafts to bring out the creative side in anyone - although it must be said that the Klingons have yet to get the hang of ashtrays, and the Romulans' mastery of making potholders is still in the very formative stage at this point, alas. The hosts have thoughtfully carved out a dozen campsites along the outskirts of the property for those intrepid souls who elect to sleep overnight in the woods during the 3-day shindig, cheerfully heedless of the danger from marauding wildlife, tempestuous weather, or rowdy aliens on the prowl for human experimentation subjects. We didn't take any chances, and left while the aliens were still otherwise occupied (I seriously doubt that Vulcan ear wrestling will ever gain a wide following out in the hinterlands, to be honest) and hurried to Denny's for dinner on the way home, which easily turned into our favorite part of the day. Frankly, we were a little concerned about the spaceship following us, but fortunately, they stopped at The Cheesecake Factory instead - because after all, their slogan is "Something For Everyone," and they ought to know. In the wider scope of things, the holiday weekend is probably most famous for that annual Bump Around The Brickyard, better known as the venerable Indianapolis 500, where "life in the fast lane" takes on a whole new meaning in this turbo-charged spectacle. The 96th running featured 33 competitors and racing teams from 15 different countries all over the globe, and including 3 women drivers among the diverse field. In the end, Dario Franchitti won the race in dramatic fashion, when the 2nd place vehicle slammed into the wall on the final lap. Franchitti joined an exclusive fraternity of only 6 other drivers who have three Indy victories to their credit, and while three drivers have won four times, there have been no five-time winners in the race's storied history. Somehow it sounds to me like the evil ghost of Affirmed has been hard at work here, and although I can't quite figure out how that could be possible, I still wouldn't put it past him. In other sports news, the plucky Rangers finally ran out of steam in the hockey playoffs, and were ousted by their dratted cross-river rivals from New Jersey in six grueling games, that were not for the faint-hearted, believe me. So in the end, it wound up being the last place Kings and 6th place Devils in the battle for Lord Stanley's Cup, which I'm thinking is certainly not the match up of champions that the hockey hierarchy might have been hoping for, and not to mention, lacking all of the marquee players like Sidney Crosby, Alexander Ovechkin, Steve Stamkos or Niklas Lidstrom, that can turn even a lackluster series into a ratings bonanza. Of course, in the world of professional hockey on television, more than 50 viewers would qualify as a bonanza, so this might actually work after all - and it would certainly thrill the hearts of the airline executives, as the two teams and all of their various equipment and assorted crews fly back and forth from one coast to the other, potentially for seven games. In fact, now I'm beginning to wonder if the President's economic advisers weren't behind this whole thing right from the start, especially since the evil ghost of Affirmed probably has nothing else to do between the Preakness and the Belmont anyway. Alert readers may recall a previous note of mine (well, it was from May 2009, so I tend to doubt that anyone would actually remember it at this point) about an unfamiliar automotive accessory - ========================== For the second time, I have found myself coming home from work behind a car that is sporting a "bumper buddy," which appears to be a fabric sort of covering for the rear end of your car. I don't have any idea what it's supposed to do, since it doesn't say, and from behind, seems to serve only as a roving advertisement for our friends at bumper buddy. ========================== It turned out later to be a purely imaginary product, even though I saw it with my own eyes in person more than once, and advertised a web site that didn't even exist, believe it or not. In what I consider a bizarre turn of events, last week I was walking through a very tiny parking lot at the hospital, which has spaces for at most 10 cars, and found two of them festooned with eye-catching bumper protectors - and even more amazing, they were two different brands, which seemed impossible out of such a small sample. One of them identified itself as The De-Fender (which is actually a pretty clever name, if you think about it) and is available from auto supply stores such as our friends at Auto Barn, for instance. The other one assured me that it was from the good folks at www.bumpersecurity.com but I learned my lesson last time with the bumper buddy non-existent web site, so I wasn't falling for that a second time. Not so fast! This snazzy site not only exists, but they are anxious to help protect your car's bumper from dangers of all kinds, and in 5 classic colors to look good while it's doing just that. (Although the black one that I saw on a little silver doorstop in the parking lot looked pretty homely, I must say.) So there you have it, right from the horse's mouth - or I guess it would be the horse's other end instead - it's like the reincarnation of the original bumper buddy rising from the ashes, and as the saying goes, riding your favorite horse around the barnyard one more time. Say, who let the evil ghost of Affirmed in here? Elle