Pardon My French

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves perched on the brink of the very last weekend in July, believe it or not, with August and its famous dog days right around the corner on Wednesday, as impossible as that might seem. It's not actually impossible that it could be August already, but it does seem somewhat improbable that the month's justly famous dog days could be any more incendiary than what we've already suffered through in July - in fact, it said in the newspaper that so far, the month is on track to become the hottest July in history, since they first started keeping records way back in the distant past. (Of course, you couldn't prove it by me and our old friends the dinosaurs, because back in the ancient days of roaming the vast unformed land masses, we only had 3 categories of heat, which were "warm," "hot," and "lava.") August would have to go a long way to top that, and I can tell you that it certainly would not win any popularity contests if it did, especially where the lava is concerned, by golly. Speaking of things that nobody wants, it was due to an unfortunate scheduling conflict that we were not able to enjoy our annual excursion to the lovely Cranbury Park in Norwalk this time around, and we had to do without the storied Round Hill Highland Games, alas. Our lives were poorer without the color and pageantry of the event, with its rainbow of tartans, the skirl of bagpipes, the folk dancing and native foods that turn this bucolic corner of southern Connecticut into a wee slice of Scotland for a day. The festival is usually held on the Saturday closest to July 4th, and this year, I was hopeful that it would be on June 30, but they opted for July 7 instead, which was the first day of my vacation - and being well over 100 miles in the opposite direction, it was impossible for us to be in both places on the same day. So, like the absent cheese fries at the beach, the Scottish Games are another pleasure that we will have to look forward to next year instead - that is, as long as they pick another time than my vacation, bonnie lads and lasses. Meanwhile on the post-vacation front, I've managed to make good progress on my camping laundry so far, instead of the usual menacing lumps of moldy clothes in towering piles everywhere for weeks on end. Even better, I actually have about half of my gear re-packed where it belongs, and put away in the attic, only this time, hopefully safely distant from the confounded varmints who chewed on it last time, and thanks so very much not. There's still a bit left to do, but at least it's not the same overwhelming profusion of paraphernalia that makes the D-Day invasion look like a spontaneous romp in the park, and the coronation of English monarchs pale in comparison. In fact, at this rate, I expect to have everything all packed away and ship-shape well before the first snowflake falls - although with our old nemesis Comrade Mischka at the helm of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, that outcome is always in doubt, and I ought to know. And while we're on the topic of camping, it's the Little Bay Plaza where I go to The Deli for my fill of their locally famous egg salad (yum!) which is a taste treat of creamy goodness that never fails to delight. This tiny strip mall is smack in the heart of a bustling part of town, right on the corner of Route 25A and North Wading River Road, and across the street from the massive King Kullen shopping center, which sports a wide array of merchants fulfilling all the needs of consumers near and far, and 24 hours a day besides. In contrast, Little Bay Plaza has a mere handful of storefronts, and none particularly noteworthy, including a bank, pizzeria, liquor store, cafe, dry cleaner, the aforementioned delicatessen, and the plaza's namesake, Little Bay Realty. You would think that at 7:00 PM on a weekday, nothing would be simpler than parking in front of the business of your choice, and hopping inside for whatever you need - but you would be very wrong, because when I go there now for dinner, there isn't a space to be had for love or money, and for such a small cluster of stores, it has a good-sized parking lot. So don't tell me about the economy, all of you nay-sayers and prognosticators of gloom out there, because this parking lot tells me a different story, and there's no arguing with success when I see it. (I also don't mind saying that I will park on the grass if I have to, because nothing will stand between me and The Deli's scrumptious egg salad while I'm on vacation, and no lack of spaces will deter me from my goal.) In any case, my dinner destination happens to be located next to a beauty shop, and I couldn't help but be pulled up short by the sandwich board they had placed outside of their door, which enumerated their many cosmetic services as follows: ================== Nails Waxing Massage Facial Permanent French ================== I'll admit that I don't know everything about the salon business in these modern times, and while I'm on board with the first four options, that last one has me totally baffled. In fact, I never knew there was such a thing as "Temporary French" that a person could be, so that salons would offer the permanent version as an enticing alternative. I'm so very much not in the ballpark with this feature that I can't even imagine what body part it would be performed on - hair, nails, lips, eyes - and frankly, every idea that I come up with that it might possibly be, has extremely disturbing connotations. Why, the very thought of it might make a person like myself stop speaking French altogether. Permanently. Meanwhile in other news, it is with deep regret that I have to report the unthinkable in these environs, and there well and truly is no joy in Mudville, alas. We have witnessed the end of a brief but shining era in New York sports, and when shall come another, we may all wonder in vain. Yes, hoops fans, the sad fact of the matter is that media darling Jeremy Lin, who electrified the local sports scene with the Knicks like a bolt out of the blue, has chosen to re-sign with his original team, the Houston Rockets, leaving a Lone Star-sized hole where this runaway publicity juggernaut used to be. So there will be no repeat of the wildly outrageous Lin-sanity from days gone by, as untold pipe dreams have been dashed on the rocky shoals of mundane contract negotiations, and the veritable cornucopia of atrocious puns relegated to the scrap heap of history, along with the souvenir T-shirts and caps of yesteryear. The plucky Knicks will have to make do with who they've got, and satisfy their ardent fans with actual results, and not just a steady diet of hollow flash and charisma from now on. Of course, we all wish the young man well as he returns to his roots, and he may be all they could hope for deep in the heart of Texas, but it will never be anything like a bite of Big Apple Lin-sanity, I can tell you that, Clyde. Also on the subject of celebrated persons, many of us at the employer of last resort were surprised last week to receive a broadcast email with this arresting subject line - =============================== Congratulations to Andrea Falco on being named a Paul Harris Fellow =============================== Here I'm thinking that the lovely and extremely feminine Andrea (who I happen to know personally) would want no part of being named any sort of fellow, and as a matter of fact, it might not be out of the question for her to run screaming in the opposite direction instead. But apparently, this is some sort of honor that the Rotary bestows upon worthy recipients, in recognition of their humanitarian work in the community, and I'm sure we can all rally around that idea, and I don't mind saying, I am unanimous in that. But you wouldn't think it would take a whole suitcase full of brains for someone at the Rotary to designate this accolade "The Paul Harris Humanitarian Award" or something, rather than just go ahead and call any old thing a "fellow," whether it's a man or a woman, a teenager, nun, infant in arms or a seeing-eye dog, for heaven's sake. ("Please join me in welcoming Paul Harris Fellow Sister Mary Elizabeth Anne Kelly, our Lady of Guadalupe!" I mean, really.) When I saw her later in the hallway, I greeted her with a hearty, "Hey, fella!" and asked if it was okay for me to introduce her as Paul Harris from now on. She laughed. I commended her on her lifestyle change, and said this would certainly be a new twist. Of course, if this was Little Bay Plaza, it would be a Permanent French Twist, don't you know. Elle