A Whale Of A Tale

Hello World, And so we find ourselves perched on the very brink of the last weekend in August, believe that or not, because next Saturday will be September already, and nothing left of August but our memories. So if you have any important summer season plans left to accomplish - and here I mean, of the watermelon, hammock, lemonade, and sand castle variety - you'd better cram them into this last week of the month, or live to regret it once September rolls around. Of course, the season lives on in clearance sales, and all the swimsuits you couldn't find a trace of in July when you needed one (having failed to buy one in March, when they first went on sale) are turning up at discount prices in all the catalogs of winter clothes that are arriving in clumps on the doorstep, from desperate retailers looking to unload their out-of-date merchandise by hook or by crook. Now, I could solve their problem at a stroke, by creating a shopping season known as "win-spri-sum-all," where everything would be available all year long, rather than the hit-or-miss hodge-podge that bedevils us these days. I'm sure the President's economic advisers would consider that a whale of an idea. Speaking of seasonal apparel, alert readers may recall last week when I mentioned the end-of-season bra sale that seemed so incongruous to me, as if undergarments were like outerwear, to be changed at a whim with the caprices of the temperature. Now it seems that there is even more afoot under the surface, as it were, if the sporting goods circulars are to be believed. As the gridiron season has been getting underway on all levels from the mightiest professionals all the way down to the puniest pipsqueaks, these glossy pages have been awash with burly young men all decked out in their football uniforms, practice togs or exercise wear, plus the requisite shoes, gloves, helmets and accessories. These ads would lead us to believe that the crucial underpinning of a successful uniform is what they describe as a "5-Pad Impact Top" and its companion "5-Pad Girdle," which would seem laughable to me, except when it's being worn by a 300-pound behemoth staring malevolently from the page with a face that would stop a clock. Mind you, this is no one's idea of a joke, as this item will set you back $100 all by its little old girdly lonesome, and that's no laughing matter. It's astounding to me that with all the resources at their command, corporate giants like Adidas and Nike can't come up with a more robust name for this garment than a girdle, for heaven's sake, which can't help but conjure up images of portly housewives from decades ago, sacrificing comfort for vanity in the age-old battle of the bulge. Even more astonishing is that they can actually sell these products - at a hundred bucks a pop - to fierce and gargantuan pigskin palookas who are not too embarrassed to wear such a thing on the field. What's next - ballet flats and tutus? Tiaras and satin gloves? Petticoats and feather boas? The dinosaurs and I can remember a time that Joe Namath wore pantyhose in a TV commercial, but I still think a girdle is just way too much, and that's not just the spandex talking, believe me. Also on the subject of outrageous ideas, I couldn't help but notice the welter of ads all over the Welcome screen lately, touting the introduction of new Yoplait Trix yogurt, of all things. As Dave Barry says, "I am not making this up," although how anything Trix could possibly be considered yogurt, I'm sure is beyond me. Why, you may as well have Twinkie flavor rice cakes, or beer-battered granola bars, for all the sense it would make in terms of health food. When I claimed two weeks ago that nefarious forces had "super-sized" ordinary yogurt into the bloated confection of frozen yogurt that is worse for you than actual junk food, well, all I can say is, I rest my case. Now, the nay-sayers and scoffers may pooh-pooh this as nothing more than righteous indignation, and claim that Yoplait Trix would be an excellent way to get children to eat more yogurt. Sure, if you want them scarf down 100 calories per measly 4 oz cup, including 50mg sodium and 14g sugar, thanks not. (By comparison, regular Dannon yogurt would clock in at 50 calories and 6g sugar for the same size container.) You may as well just give them a box of Yodels in the first place and be done with it, at least they don't take up space in the refrigerator, and you don't have to wash any spoons. They call this yogurt, ye gods. Now this is normally where I would be saying, "In other news," and launch into something else of a fresh or noteworthy nature. However, I feel compelled to point out that this next tidbit is certainly not new in any way, or even that anything about it has recently come to light, to make anyone take a new look at it with fresh eyes. But I will say that it comes as news to me, after all this time, and to say that it was also an unwelcome surprise, pretty much sums it up in the proverbial nutshell. Of course, we are all, along with countless legions of hapless school children through the years, abundantly familiar with John Greenleaf Whittier's famous Civil War poem, where an affronted Barbara Frietchie declares unflinchingly: "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's flag," to the chagrin of marauding rebel soldiers who back down from her steely resolve like paper napkins in a strong wind. With those rousing words, she joins the ranks of esteemed others before and since, like Captain Ahab, Beowulf, Hercules, Robin Hood, and even The Mighty Casey At The Bat, whose distinctive clarion call has echoed throughout the ages of literature, weaving a glorious tapestry of heroic fictional characters standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the ramparts of freedom, justice, and joy in Mudville. Whoa! Or, as Mr. Ed would say, "Hold the palominos!" According to our friends at wikipedia, the actual real and authentic Barbara Hauer (1766-1862) married John Fritchie, and became a leading citizen of Frederick, Maryland, as well as a compatriot of Francis Scott Key, no stranger to military poetry himself. The 1864 poem is purportedly based on an account of the 95-year-old Union stalwart facing down the troops of Stonewall Jackson from her front steps, as they marched through the town. In keeping with what I always considered the fictitious nature of the poem, this part turns out to be pure hogwash, as the route of the troops was nowhere near the Fritchie house, while the family stayed safely locked inside for protection. In the interests of accuracy, Whittier could just as well have invented a suitable heroine, placing her old gray head and tattered flag in the troop's path on the other side of town where they actually were instead, and left the poor grizzled Mrs. Fritchie peacefully unaccosted. But taking a page out of the Liberty Valance casebook ("When the legend becomes fact, print the legend" ) Whittier chose to commemorate this indomitable matron of the American spirit, and through the power of poetic license, took a real person and a real event in the same town, and still managed to come up with something that was a complete figment of the imagination. I guess that's what Captain Ahab would call a whale of a story. And as long as we're taking pains to set the historical record straight (and Liberty Valance notwithstanding) and as much as I hate to admit it, there's no denying that it was in actuality Joe E. Lewis who made the classic observation that "Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel," and not the fabled Ring Lardner, who might seem the more obvious choice. Lewis was a vaudeville comic and film actor (not to be confused with the rubber-faced Joe E. Brown) who was well known for his quips on a variety of subjects, and since he lived and died in the shadow of the House That Ruth Built, I'm sure he knew a thing or two about the storied Bombers. On the other hand, the legendary Lardner hailed from Michigan and worked in Chicago, widely famous for his humorous sports columns and satirical stories, entertaining readers everywhere for decades. (A typical excerpt from his work, "He looked at me as if I were a side dish he hadn't ordered," is one that cannot be improved upon, no matter how you try.) Not to begrudge the affable Lewis one of my favorite quotes of all time, but in my mind at least, the U.S. Steel jibe was one that sounded more like it would have leaped from the fertile pen of someone who covered sports for a living, and not just a disgruntled New Yorker taking random swipes at everything under the sun. So there you have it, sports fans and history buffs alike, we have stripped away the tawdry cloak of hokum and fabrication, beaming the spotlight of accuracy on popular misconceptions, until they shine with the unadulterated ring of truth, at long last, and long may they wave, Stonewall Jackson. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't, well, you can just - Call me Ishmael

Tis The Season

Hello World, Beware the Ides of August, and then some! We're already more than half-way through the month already, and before you know it, back-to-school will be upon us in earnest. Of course, nowadays they start putting the back-to-school displays in the stores during June, when school is technically still in session, while a steady stream of circulars pours in, hawking everything for the student from backpacks to washing machines, and every high-tech gadget and gizmo under the sun. Heck, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when it was considered routine for students to go back to school without the benefit of a new digital camera, big-screen TV or the latest Sony PlayStation, and that's not just the back-to-school wine talking, believe me. Speaking of technology, I was doing some research for which I required the services of a web browser with search capabilities, and luckily I have several of them on my computer, so I was all set. I typed my inquiry into the search box, which I assure you was in no way of a salacious nature of any sort, and I was more surprised than anybody when the results pointed me in a very different and decidedly unseemly direction from what I was expecting. Apparently one possible result of my query was an individual associated with erotic films, and I will say that the plethora of results indicated his immense popularity, especially since he was recently deceased, although obviously very far from forgotten. It was due to his esteemed reputation that so many of the results highlighted his numerous award-winning performances in what must have been a substantial career, and not just a one-night stand, as it were. And that is how I now know (however much I may have not been looking for, or ever desired to find out) that the awards presented to performers in the - ahem! - adult film industry are known as "The Grabbys." (As in, "How does that grab ya?") I thought that was so funny. Meanwhile, our friends in the world of plus-size apparel at Woman Within were kind enough to send out their latest catalog featuring what they refer to as their Semi-Annual Bra Sale with savings up to 75%, or as they describe it, apparently without irony, "End-of-Season Blowout." Now, I'll have you know it's been literally decades since I started wearing a bra, and this is the very first I'm ever hearing of any such thing as "bra season," and I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, I can assure you. What, do they have special fur-lined bras for winter, and different hot-weather versions in seersucker or gauze to keep the ladies cool as a cucumber? I realize that things have certainly changed since the dinosaurs and I roamed the vast unformed land masses in the primordial ooze, and not necessarily for the better, I can tell you that. But as much as lingerie has changed in all that time, I still can't see having a season associated with it, so that holding a sale at the end of the season would make any sense. You may as well have "fork season" or "sock season" or "piano season," for heaven's sake. The mind reels. In other mind-reeling news, we had our very own backyard miracle recently, that was not only just the right size, but also came along at precisely the right moment that we needed it. One corner of the yard has always had a towering Tree of Heaven, or Ailanthus Altissima, which is actually a native of China, and was widely cultivated there to support the ailanthus silkworm, providing the basis for famous Chinese silk. Although the species has been in this country for centuries, the trees are commonly disparaged for their messy and invasive habits, and I didn't have to go look that up, because I already have plenty of first-hand experience with it, that's for sure. Because they are considered "weed trees," they generally don't grow as tall as their more robust counterparts, and usually don't last much longer than 50 years. That being the case, ours was already on borrowed time when we got married, so we weren't surprised when it started dropping its branches over the years, and finally it just died standing there, straight as a pillar and nothing left to lose. It didn't seem to be going anywhere, and while we were happy to ignore it, I can tell you that it was about the most popular thing with the local woodpeckers for miles around. Then suddenly on a beautiful day, out of a clear blue sky - WHUMP! It came crashing down into the yard, landing in one piece just as it had been standing, and here's the miraculous part: it somehow missed absolutely everything in our entire yard, including the other old trees, our garage and garages in two neighboring yards, all of the fences in three neighboring yards, plus their hedges, and even our old ratty scavenged patio table and chairs. If you had drawn a line the size of this tree, you could not have found one single other spot that it could have fallen and not hit something at that distance, no matter how hard you tried. Even more providentially, it only lacked about 10 feet to reach the house, so to say that we dodged a bullet on this occasion, is to really say a mouthful. After the dust had settled, I went out and measured it with my tape measure, so like they say in boxing, I can now give you The Tale of The Tape and know that it's true. The tree as it fell was 35-feet tall, tapering to about 30" around at the top (approximately 10" diameter) and a hefty 60" around (20" diameter) at the main part of the trunk. However, since the tree grew up split into two equal trunks, rather than just one, the whole thing measured over 8-feet in circumference all the way at the bottom. So in the end, I guess we can say that it really did live up to its name as a Tree of Heaven, saving its surprise miracle for last - although it did go out with a bang, rather than a chorus of angel voices. Now that's what I call an end-of-season blowout, by golly. And while we're on the topic of measurable things, I came across one that I wasn't expecting, and also in an unexpected place. Our friends at Turner Classic Movies were running a marathon of Elvis Presley movies, so that just about any old anybody could get their fill of The King of Rock & Roll, and that's not just a lot of blue suede shoes, believe me. (Oh, settle down, Carl Perkins, you ain't nothing but a hound dog, and you ain't no friend of mine.) Last night when I turned on the television, they were in the middle of showing "The Trouble With Girls," from 1969 and featuring the talents of Joyce van Patten and John Carradine, of all people, besides The Mighty Pelvis his own self, who was looking admirably young and fit, I must say. At the time I tuned in, everyone seemed to be at some sort of fair, with the requisite rides, games of chance, balloons, cotton candy and stuffed animal prizes in profusion. Apropos of nothing, these two youngsters walked up to a booth with volunteers handing out treats, and as they walked away with their goodies, one observed to the other: "The Methodists make better cookies than the Lutherans," while his companion nodded in agreement. Did I laugh! I thought that was such a strange line of dialogue to plant in an old ditzy musical, and completely out of the blue like that, with no relation to the rest of the story in any way. And not to cast aspersions on the culinary abilities of Methodists through the ages, but I feel compelled to leap to the defense of my Lutheran brethren (and especially the sisthren of church basement ladies everywhere) when I say that while it's true that historically Lutherans may be more famous for their singing, rest assured that they can pot-luck with the best of them, and when it comes to casseroles and Jell-O molds, they take a back seat to nobody. So maybe in 1969 Hollywood, Lutherans could be treated as the punching bag of ecclesiastical finger foods, but nowadays they have long since checked out of that Heartbreak Hotel, and turned their Blue Christmas cookies into a hunk-a hunk-a Burning Love Me Tender, Teddy Bear. In fact, I would go grab myself some right now, but unfortunately, it's not the season. Elle

Rubber Ducky

Hello World, A great big, multi-colored, heart-pounding, Olympic-sized greeting to you and the rest of your team! From the remotest cave on the highest mountaintop, to the darkest trench in the deepest ocean, it would be impossible to miss the Summer Olympic Games taking place in jolly old London this time around, and certainly making all sorts of noise, not only on an international level, but probably also the farthest reaches of outer space in galaxies that haven't even been discovered yet. In fact, my sister says that the Klingons and Romulans from her annual BBQ have been contacting her regularly for updates on the gymnastics results - that is, after their first love, which of course, is fencing. In fact, the Romulans wanted to compete in the "chain link" category, while the Klingons thought they would be the team to beat in "stockade," but I'm afraid the extra-terrestrial language barrier made them a little confused as to what the sport actually entailed, and more's the pity, I'm sure. Frankly, I wouldn't envy the country that tried to compete against the aliens in building a fence, and that's not just a lot of dilithium crystals, believe me. In other news, as they say at the college football games: "You can stick a fork in this one, because it's done." The results are in, and last month set a new record for being the hottest July in the country's history, since they first began keeping records in 1895. And I will say that this should come as no surprise to anyone who lived through it, or should I say, melted through it, and that's not just whistling "This Land is Your Land," by golly. In fact, last month broke the heat record set in July 1936 at the height of the Dust Bowl, only we didn't have Woody Guthrie singing songs about us like they did back then, from the redwood forests to the New York islands, not to mention, trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. And not resting on its laurels, so far 2012 has been the hottest 7 months on record, and also the hottest 12-month period ever from August 2011 - July 2012, which should also come as no surprise to anybody. So, stop the presses and re-write the record books, because this aptly named month of Julius is the new all-time Caesar of Celsius, and the late lamented Woody Guthrie with his Dust Bowl ditties can just go off riding the rails into meteorological oblivion, from California to the Gulf stream waters, and take his grapes of wrath right along with him, by Jove. Speaking of heat, while it may seem impossible, people have actually started playing professional football already, and not just escaped mental patients and outer space aliens who don't know any better, but actual recognizable players on real valid NFL teams - and you don't have to take my word for it, because you can honestly see them yourself on genuine television, and no goal post jive about it. I know it doesn't seem remotely possible to me, when I haven't even finished putting away my camping laundry, and here's the pride of the gridiron already playing games for TV audiences, as if there isn't already enough going on with baseball and the Olympics as it is, for heaven's sake. Heck, it's a whole 7 months to the Super Bowl, putting this on an anachronistic par with the Christmas music catalogs at church in May, and it goes without saying, thanks so very much not. In light of the prevailing temperatures, I hope at a minimum that they're playing at indoor arenas with plenty of air conditioning, and frankly, snow-making equipment might not be out of the question either. At least it would give the escaped mental patients and outer space aliens something to do, and maybe give them a chance to practice their alpine skills for the upcoming Winter Olympics while they're at it. I hear that the Klingons are partial to curling, while the Romulans have bobsled fever - although personally, I think the cloaking devices are just way too much of an unfair advantage in any case. And as long as we're off the beaten track here, fortunately for modern humanity, there's the ubiquitous snack-of-all-trades known as trail mix to keep us all going throughout our busy days, whether navigating the treacherous rocky shoals of office politics, or hiking in the trackless wastes of the great outdoors. Of course, it seems like there's always been classic trail mix, with its healthy combination of fruits and nuts, but now if you scope out this section at your local grocery retailer, you will notice that the category has proliferated exponentially to include such diverse offerings as: Mediterranean Blend Spicy Cajun Cranberry Nut Power Blast Asian Fusion Energy Boost Morning Medley Tropical Harvest We were at the store last week when we spotted the newest addition to this wide-ranging line-up, which is something they identify, and apparently without irony, as Caramel Crunch, believe it or not. Now, to my way of thinking, this is not so much trail mix as Fiddle Faddle, and if anybody tries to convince me this is good for you, I can tell you that I will go all the way around Robin Hood's barn, and eat my proverbial hat, before I will begin to fall for a whopper like that one. And so here we have basically a carbon copy of what already happened to yogurt, which is good for you and tastes like it, so people wouldn't eat it - that is, until they came along with frozen yogurt, that happens to be more like an ice cream sundae in a cup, and is even worse for you than ice cream to start with. Now skulking along in these same footsteps, they have inexorably started to super-size trail mix, so you may as well eat a whole box of Ring Dings instead. Well, they can't just foist this Caramel Crunch trail mix on me, like I just fell off the frozen yogurt truck, and that's not just the Fiddle Faddle talking, believe me. Even more off the beaten track, the time had finally come, and in fact it was long since past due, that I was so sick and tired of the stupid little lot where we had to park, that I trekked all the way over to Personnel and begged them to re-assign me back to the main employee lot, where I had once been so happy and carefree. They could not have been more accommodating, and in short order, I bid a hearty "Good riddance" to what I considered the stupid little children's table, and said I was going to go back and feast with the adults once again. Since then, it's been a great boon to rejoin the contented throngs in the big lot, which not only lives up to its name by being vastly enormous, but it's also much easier to get in and out of from the main thoroughfare, and not tucked away in some remote wilderness off a derelict side street. Even better, you don't take your life in your hands trying to cross the road, where the so-called pedestrian crosswalk is just an open invitation to run people over from every conceivable direction, including some that only outer space aliens would have any need for. The main lot offers parking spaces for probably hundreds of cars, and in this expansive sea of vehicles, I could not have been more astonished to stumble across yet another car sporting an unsightly rubber diaper on its rear end, and even more incredible, it was yet a different product from a separate manufacturer than the other three I had already seen in the past. You would think this would be impossible, and yet, I saw it with my own eyes, so I know it's true. This model was from our friends at Bumper Badger (and they invite you to go right ahead and visit their web site at www.bumperbadger.com and see for yourself) which they tell me is "The First and Last Name in Bumper Protection." Now this is the fourth one of these I've seen around the hospital, which makes me wonder if parking around our campus is all that dangerous, so that people feel compelled to hide their cars in layers of defensive garments, like medieval knights in chain mail and helmets. Or the other possibility that suggests itself, however unwillingly, is that enterprising representatives of these companies are out there prowling around likely locations, and surreptitiously attach the rubber rompers to unattended vehicles, which then act as promotional bumper stickers, as the drivers go blithely along with these mobile billboards flapping behind them for all the world to see. Say, maybe the Klingons and Romulans had the right idea with their cloaking devices after all. Elle

That Empty Feeling

Hello World, Happy August! We have now officially entered into the month famous for its "Dog Days" throughout history, and when we complain about the heat, we stand shoulder-to-shoulder with numberless citizens of the past, and one supposes, an equally numberless parade of them into the future and beyond. In many ways, the first few days of the new month don't seem as unbearably hot as it was in July, but now the humidity is just off the charts, and the air is as thick as a steam bath. This is a good time to stay indoors where it's cool - and even better would be that clever dog you see on TV commercials named "Wego," where every time someone says "Here we go," he brings them a cold drink. I'll drink to that! I also ask you to please keep in mind that if you're going to be visiting anyone in this area, you should bring your own sandals and Turkish towels. Speaking of the heat, it was a hot time at the ol' Safety Fair a couple of weeks ago, and that's not just a lot of hot air, believe me. The staff education team sends around notices to tell all of us that we have to go because it's mandatory - but the hospital and I are of two minds about that, and my personal feeling about it is that if they want me to go to this clambake, they're going to have to catch me first. But one of my stalwart coworkers duly attended the event as instructed, and was so overcome with the sweltering heat upstairs that he became nauseous and dizzy, and went home sick for the rest of the day - which I'm thinking is not exactly the effect that you would want from your Safety Fair, of all things. So apparently it's "Safety Last" around here, where the inaptly named fair turned out to be very much a foul-weather friend instead. And while we're on the topic of foul weather, I couldn't help but notice this screaming headline in the local newspaper on Monday: ==================== Lightening Strikes House in White Plains ==================== Now, the story goes on to say: "Around 3:30 p.m. Sunday, lightning struck the brick chimney of a house on Hemlock Circle." You would think if they could take this bolt out of the blue and spell it right in the story, there's no reason that they couldn't spell it right in the headline, but apparently that part of the scenario was just way beyond the reach of their meager capabilities at The Journal Snooze, and as we all know when it comes to spelling, a miss is as good as a mile. Of course, the spell-checker can't help you with this, since "lightening" is certainly a perfectly good word in its own right - and actually, makes this story sound rather jaunty and uplifting, like someone launched a canister of special whitening powder at this house, and bathed it with a bright luminous glow for all the world to see. Frankly, I prefer that kind of lightening to the regular kind, which is not only noisy but erratically dangerous, and I don't have to go to the Safety Fair to know that, believe me. Of course, the Safety Fair is not the only place where people have to be on their guard against danger, as there is plenty of it all around, and sometimes in the most unexpected places. That is probably why they invented one specific product in the first place, that is used to warn people of dangerous places, and we have all seen profuse strands of bright yellow "caution" or "Police" tape draped around crime scenes or construction zones, not only on television, but also in our own personal lives in a variety of situations, where the aim is to keep people out of a particular area for their own protection. It would be easy to assume that this fiery-hued tape would need no introduction, and would be universally understood by everyone the world over, without regard to age, education or language barriers of any kind. So it came as a surprise when the part-time minister at our church, whose real job is in the NYFD training division, explained that in the fire department, they call this item "Duck Under Tape," because he said that what people invariably do is walk right up and duck under it, instead of staying outside like they're supposed to. I thought that was so funny. Also at church, we had been embroiled in a somewhat testy territorial tussle with the denomination hierarchy, which threatened to turn into a legal wrangle that would have served no purpose but to line the pockets of attorneys on both sides, and which sounded about as appealing to us as walking into the proverbial lion's den, and I ought to know. Providentially for us, the good Lord in His infinite wisdom, delivered us out of the hands of our enemies, as it were, and the crisis was averted without a shot being fired, or Nikita Khrushchev banging on the podium with his shoe, and I'm not even sure who blinked first. In recognition of our deliverance, we recently held a special thanksgiving service to celebrate our history of tradition and faithfulness, and welcome a brighter future full of promise. There were plaques and proclamations for key people most closely involved in the struggle, and Council members like myself were given envelopes with a token of gratitude for our efforts. Well, that was the plan, anyway. It was a regrettably unfortunate slip-up that some of the envelopes that were given out turned out to be entirely empty, no doubt making the recipients wonder just how much their endeavors were truly appreciated, and the perplexed look on their faces said it all. So that added a hefty dose of inadvertent humor to what was already a jolly occasion - or maybe I'm just saying that because I wasn't one of the maligned individuals who got an empty envelope for all of my yeoman service in the age-old quest for freedom from oppression, not to mention, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Now would someone please give Nikita Khrushchev back his shoe and tell him to lighten up, because after all, we all know that lightening doesn't strike the same place twice, by golly. Elle