Anyone Can Whistle

Hello World, Happy Jewish New Year! If you haven't already wished all of your friends L'shana Tova, you're way behind schedule, because legions of the faithful were already ringing in the new year of 5773 on the 17th, and don't spare the latkes! The Holiday Police may quibble, but I always say there's no wrong time to wish everyone a bright shiny future filled with health, happiness and prosperity, whether you celebrate the New Year in September, January, February or at Samhain in November, along with the rest of the Druids, and I ought to know. So feel free to go ahead and kick up your heels, paint the town red, or trip the light fantastic wherever the whim takes you. You can tell the Holiday Police that I sent you. For anyone who wondered, my time at Jury Duty was interesting in its own way, and blissfully brief. I thought since I had already been there once before in 2000, it would be a piece of cake this time around, but when Bill and I made a rudimentary reconnaissance of the area on Sunday, we found that everything had changed in the meantime. For instance, we found the Juror parking with no trouble, but discovered too late that it was not the right lot for prospective jurors, only ones already assigned to current trials. That left me driving around in circles on Tuesday morning when I had to report, and taking my life in my hands crossing the streets from the municipal parking at the shopping center down the block. After navigating the security gauntlet in the courthouse, I discovered that they don't let you take the stairs in the building for safety reasons, and the lines for the elevators were enormous, or about what you would expect for a 19-story building in the heart of White Plains. I brought a few puzzle books with me to while away the hours, that were supposed to be fast and easy, so the fact that I was routinely stumped by their brain teasers was quite embarrassing, to say the least. Fortunately, there was a wide-screen TV in the juror break room, for those of us who wanted to keep up with the Kardashians, rather than challenging our poor addled brain cells (both of them, who I have renamed Oliver and Wendell for the occasion) with math riddles and word games. One big disadvantage to the building was a continuous high-pitched whistle everywhere you went in the hallways, perhaps related to the surveillance equipment, that was trying to be faint, but was still way too noticeable, and overly sensitive individuals would have run from the premises screaming. I can tell you that Oliver and Wendell didn't think much of it either. I was first called to be interviewed for a case involving a bar fight, where one of the combatants sued the bar owners, but luckily I was pulled out of there in the nick of time, and claimed as 2nd alternate in a different case - and while I can't tell you anything about the particulars, let's just say it was along the lines of "Miss Edna Flapdoodle sued the Town of Upper Crankcase when her prized Peke-a-poo, Confucius Bonaparte, stepped into some wet cement and ruined his expensive pedicure." My second day, which was the first day of the actual trial, we sat and listened to a steady stream of witnesses and experts, none of whom could seem to remember anything at all about the incident. We dutifully showed up the next day, prepared for another tiresome round of boring witnesses parading before us, but we were surprised to get some good news - the parties decided to settle instead, and we were all released with thanks. Not only that, they gave us all certificates and parting gifts, and let us go our merry way with a song in our hearts and the satisfaction of a job well done. The legendary Oliver Wendell Holmes would have been proud. Here is my favorite story from Jury Duty this time around. Once I was assigned to a case, I was allowed to park in the designated area of the gigantic parking garage across the street, which features a handy pedestrian bridge to the courthouse, although it is for employees only, with special access keys, and not open to the public. Crossing the street there is not for the faint-hearted, as it is 6 lanes wide, and the traffic is not only constant, but dangerously manic as well. It was on my last day that another juror enlightened me to the secret elevator in the corner of the parking garage, that somehow comes up right in the lobby of the courthouse, which is technically across a very wide street from the aforementioned parking garage where we started. When the doors opened, I just stood there gaping, with my mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out - wondering how they accomplished this particular special effect of an elevator that moved not only horizontally, but diagonally from the deepest recesses of the structure far across the street, and mysteriously ended up smack inside the courthouse lobby in one seamless motion. It reminded me of those capers from the old Mission Impossible TV series, where the bad guys would go into a phony building, and the IMF team would turn the whole building around, so when the poor schnooks came out again, and thought they were in the same place, they turned out to be somewhere completely different, and they had no idea what happened. It was a real Candid Camera moment for me in the lobby, I can tell you that. After my adventures in the justice system, we felt that it was time to go back to Cold Spring once again with our friends, or as the announcer used to declare ages ago on The Lone Ranger show, "Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear," revisiting our first excursion to the area in 2009, when we loved everything about it, especially the sumptuous accommodations. Not so fast! One of our favorite hotels of all time, the incomparable Sierra Suites in Fishkill, had changed hands and become the Hyatt House instead, right out from under our very noses, and thanks ever so much not. We were still ready to give the new place a try and hope for the best, but it turned out that they had no vacancies for the weekend anyway. Our hearts sank, and it was with resignation that we opted for the Holiday Inn Express instead, and didn't dare to expect much, but we were pleasantly surprised. Although they had no gift shop, banquet rooms or business center, there was a very nice pool with hot tub, located in a tidy enclosure right off the lobby, as well as a small fitness center, and a bountiful new diner that is conveniently adjacent to the parking lot. We found Cold Spring much as we had left it, with a few changes here and there, but mostly the same motley assortment of shops, with just about anything in the world that might be weird, wacky or wonderful, and everything in between. Lengthy browsing through the shops can be overwhelming to the senses, and the village has thoughtfully provided plenty of benches to rest, and places to eat along the way, so tourists can restore their flagging spirits and continue their explorations with renewed vigor. Saturday was a sort of changeable day, but it didn't actually rain, and we spent hours traipsing up one side of street and down the other, enjoying the sights on every side and drinking it all in. We passed under the train tracks to the esplanade on the waterfront, where the sweeping views of the mighty Hudson River and majestic Hudson Highlands are worth the trip all by themselves. By late afternoon, we had worn ourselves out, and don't think that I haven't got the souvenirs to prove it, by golly. After a quick change, we took a chance on the Red Line Diner next to the hotel, and found it much to our liking, with a wide-ranging menu, friendly service and tasty food. Nothing tops off a long and busy day like cavorting in a pool, and we considered the hot tub to be just the proverbial icing on the cake, and glad of it. Sunday morning we availed ourselves of the hotel breakfast, which offered plenty of choices, although we found the seating area a little bit cramped for our tastes. Next stop was historic Mt. Tremper, to see the Kaatskill Kaleidoscope, which bills itself as the world's largest kaleidoscope near Woodstock, and is famous enough to have its own entry at wikipedia, so that tells you something right there. They will inform you that it was built in 1996 and located in a 60-foot silo at the Emerson Country Store along Route 28, although it's actually a lot harder to find than you would think it would be, and a wanton lack of signs would make casual tourists drive right past the place without a second thought, even with the most elaborate GPS technology right at their fingertips. Unfortunately, you don't actually get to see the kaleidoscope work for real, but they do present an entertaining video show of kaleidoscope images with music accompaniment in its place. We agreed that the best part of all was The KaleidoStore, where the engaging staff will show you their astonishing variety of very expensive kaleidoscopes, of every imaginable description, and for those of us whose last experiences with them were cardboard tubes full of plastic baubles, it was certainly an eye-opener in more ways than one, believe me. These remarkable beauties will dazzle you with their interplay of light, color and reflection, in infinite combinations that thrill and delight at every turn. Nowadays, deluxe kaleidoscopes are lovingly hand-crafted by renowned designers whose names are as revered by aficionados, as sports heroes are to the hometown fans. I could have watched those things all day, and we hated to tear ourselves away. You can also have lunch in the cafe while you're there, and on a beautiful day like Sunday, dining al fresco on their patio would be a real treat. But wait, there's more! Besides the homey charm of The Country Store itself, the establishment also boasts a plethora of antique shops bunched together along a cozy hallway, with just about anything you could think of, and many that you couldn't possibly, no matter how hard you tried - as well as contemporary apparel, jewelry, cosmetics, and organic personal care products to please the most discerning customers. After our fill of kaleidoscopes, snacks and antiques for one day, it was finally time to bid our fond farewells and head for home. We noticed on our way out that the area seemed familiar, and turned out to be on the other side of the road from the charmingly quaint Catskill Mountain Railroad that we had visited way back in 2004, and had so much fun on their short tourist railway along the scenic Esopus Creek - and which certainly explained all of the train whistles we had been hearing while we were there. For a town that no one's ever heard of, there's a lot to do in this one small corner of the hinterlands, and that train's not just whistling Dixie, Casey Jones. We stopped for dinner at Denny's in Newburgh, where they whipped up all of our favorites, and just as good as ever. The trip home was uneventful, and less traffic than we expected on a Sunday night. We arrived home tired but happy, brimming with all of our memories and souvenirs from our travels. Our cats met us with their trademark indifference, which at least provides reassurance that we haven't somehow stumbled into the wrong house by mistake, where those other cats are actually glad to see their human companions, and that's also not just the Druids whistling Dixie, Confucius Bonaparte. Elle

Order In The Court

Friends, Romans, Countrymen: We salute you! Well, the time had surely come, in fact it was somewhat overdue, that the New York State court system would be sending out those fateful notices calling the intrepid citizens of this great land to strike a blow for freedom and democracy by shouldering their responsibility to serve as one member of a jury among peers, and making the promise of a fair trial into a reality - which after all, is a fundamental principle that is denied to oppressed multitudes the world over. Why, of course I would be honored to serve - as I'm sure any red-blooded American would be humbled at the prospect of this glorious privilege that is theirs for the taking, by jingo. Not so fast! The first summons arrived in June, requesting my presence during the second week in July, but I had to respectfully decline, as I would be on vacation that week - and we all know that the spies and raccoons couldn't possibly get along without me. So it was postponed until September, which is how I found myself at the courthouse in White Plains during the week, instead of at my post in the hospital, keeping the gears of the Purchasing machinery running smoothly, and humming along like a fine Swiss watch. That is, except for when my Evil Twin shows up, and then all bets are off. In any case, the week was rather more hectic than a typical week - although not all bad - and I lived to tell the tale, so we can be reassured that the Age of Miracles has not passed. It reminded me of my first foray into the justice system in these environs, so for anyone who doesn't remember it from the first time around, here it is again, out of the dusty old archives, from all the way back in February 21, 2000 - =========================== So here's my story about being summoned for Jury Duty. Bear in mind that you can go along, day by day, your entire life waiting for someone to hand you a straight line and it never happens. So if that magical day ever comes along, and the perfect opportunity presents itself to you, you know that you darned well better take advantage of it then, or waste the chance of a lifetime. Anyway, this is what happened to me. There I was at the county court house in White Plains, exercising my french fries -- no, no, I was there making myself available to participate in one of the greatest advantages this fine country has to offer, the privilege of a trial by a jury of one's peers. They were calling names for a civil trial and they selected about 20 of us to go into an impaneling room to be interviewed by the attorneys. Because this was a medical malpractice case, the attorneys were asking everyone if they had any relatives in the medical field. This person or that would say, "My sister-in-law is a nurse" or "My cousin is a doctor." The attorney would ask where they work and whatever hospital was mentioned, he said, "Oh, I know that one." After a while, he joked, "When you do enough malpractice cases, you get to know all of the hospitals." That was why I found it peculiar when he got around to me and he looked at my questionnaire and launched this puzzling query at me: "What type of care do they have at, what is this, the .... Sound .... Shore ..... Medical Center .... of .... Westchester ..... ???" He asked the question as if he was holding the name of the hospital away from himself with a pair of tongs, like we were set up in a tent with witch doctors using rattles and chicken bones, or maybe in a run-down storefront and relying on pyramids and crystals. After he seemed to know every squirrely little hospital within 150 miles, I found it odd that he wasn't familiar with a fairly major hospital not 30 minutes away. Anyway, by the time I was being interviewed, it was late and everyone was hot, tired, hungry, bored and a little bit punchy. To this day, I have no idea what I was going to say when he asked me that question. Because, when he tossed me that screwball, about "what kind of care do they have," this is what I found myself saying, "The Sound Shore Medical Center of Westchester is a fully integrated health system, providing a continuum of care across a wide spectrum of services. It is a primary health care facility that delivers high-quality, affordable care to our region and incorporates physician education, staff development, and community outreach, woven into a program of continuous quality improvement ...... " Well, I just went on and on. In case you don't recognize it, that's the Mission Statement from the hospital and I gave it to him with both barrels. I didn't stop until I got all the way to the bottom, where it says that we " .... strive to be partners with other health care providers" and that we " ... are committed to improving the quality of life" of everyone we come in contact with. When I stopped, you could have heard a pin drop. I think everyone was afraid that wasn't the end of it. Our Mission Statement is four paragraphs of long, convoluted sentences that go on forever and say absolutely nothing, but use a lot of big words to do it. For as long as I've worked at the hospital, they've been telling us we have to know our Mission Statement in case someone from the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Hospitals should ask us. So for ten years, I've memorized the Mission Statement, and NO ONE EVER ASKED ME. You can see that when the attorney asked me "what kind of care do they have" I had no choice but to throw the Mission Statement at him, in all of its ponderous and verbose glory. That poor man had no idea what he was in for with that question, but he stepped into it with both feet and I let him have it. I still can't understand why they didn't pick me for that jury. I'm figuring it was because I was over-qualified. Oh well, the moral of this story is that you never know when your chance is going to come, so you've got to be ready, sometimes when you least expect it. I finally got my crack at the Mission Statement, and I gave it everything I had. That was the highlight of my week and I hope you're having a jolly week also. John Q. Public

Way Out West

Hello World, Well, I'll tell you if you could bottle this weather we've been having this week, your fortune would be made, and you would lack for nothing all the rest of your days, that's for sure. It's been just one glorious day after another, with sparkling blue skies and puffy clouds, lovely warm, dry weather, and cool crisp nights that make you glad to be alive. I can only surmise that our old nemesis Comrade Mischka is taking a well-deserved vacation in the Urals, and away from the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, and as far as I'm concerned, he can just stay there. Speaking of other good things, it must have been the previous week when I left for work in a steady downpour, so when I got to the big parking lot, I took out my handy car umbrella to take that long trek up the hill to my building, several blocks away. Aha! I luckily remembered yet another benefit of parking in the big lot, compared to the stupid little lot of yore, which is that immediately across the street from the big lot is one of the many out-buildings on the hospital campus, all conveniently connected with a series of tunnels - so you can duck right into the closest one to get out of the weather, and skip right to your own building in comfort and safety. Take that, Comrade Mischka! We're getting into that interesting time of year for sports, when a lot of different things all seem to be happening at once - or as Bill likes to point out, when all four of the local teams can lose on the very same day. Right now, the vaunted Yankees are locked in a see-saw battle for first place with the pesky Orioles, with the dratted Rays not far behind and nipping at their heels. Meanwhile across town, the spunky Mets are out of the playoff picture at this point, but feature a legitimate Cy Young candidate on their pitching staff, with an impressive record of 18-5 on a team that's a woeful 13 games under .500 for the season. Having a career year, fan favorite R.A. Dickey is a potential 20-game winner with 3 weeks remaining, which would be the latest for the franchise since Frank Viola way back in 1990, and joining an elite group of only 5 other pitchers to reach this mark in the club's history. This would be a lone bright spot in an otherwise dreadful season, and perhaps offer a glimmer of hope, however misguided, for the loyal "Wait until next year!" contingent, and that's not just a lot of peanuts and Cracker Jacks, by golly. In other sports news, Week One of the football season has come and gone, with a mixed bag of results that might not be all that could have been hoped for. The defending Super Bowl champion Giants unexpectedly lost to the odious Cowboys, of all things, which is certainly not the fast-break start to the season that would thrill the hearts of Big Blue fans, especially against another NFC East opponent. (Although how Dallas got roped into anybody's idea of the East is a mystery to me, I'm sure, and just goes to prove that the NFL management, like most Americans, is geography-challenged, and has no concept of where anything is located. For the record, Dallas is almost 700 miles west of St. Louis, which after all, is the official Gateway to the West, so that tells you something right there, Horace Greeley.) At the same time, their stadium room-mates in green, the hapless Jets who couldn't win a single game through the entire pre-season, romped over the Buffalo Bills, vaulting to the top of their division at a stroke like some offensive powerhouse taking the AFC by storm. (They're clearly not.) Of course, the pundits will tell you that it's much too early for panic - or conversely, euphoria either - with still a double-octet of games left to play, and five months yet to go. But early season results in football are always so entertaining, however inadvertently, and wildly unrepresentative of the season as a whole, which makes it even more fun. Takers on Gang Green in Super Bowl XLVII, anyone? This is normally where I would wrap up with good news from the frozen front, but alas, there is no joy in Mudville, and that's not just the Zamboni talking, believe me. It all began months ago, when the surprising Los Angeles Kings won the Stanley Cup, and once the season was officially over, the off-season trades and deals could begin in earnest. Anyone can tell you that when it comes to tossing around big money for the big names in the free agent market, you're not going to see the New York Rangers right in the thick of the action, because that's not their style, and they're more likely to acquire players in trades, rather than competing with other teams in a buyer's frenzy for some high-priced superstar. So it certainly came as a surprise to just about everybody when the marquee player of the available free agents this summer, Rick Nash, was summarily snapped up by the pride of Broadway without a fight, and leaving the bevy of disappointed hopefuls shaking their heads in wonder. Admittedly, Nash is no dewy-eyed phenom at 28 years old, but has a proven track record of 289 goals and 258 assists over his 9-year career (including 7 straight 20-goal seasons, and 5 consecutive All-Star game appearances, where he is the leading goal scorer since 2004) making this a genuine off-season blockbuster deal that is almost unheard of in Rangers history. Frankly, many of us were looking forward to seeing how this scheme was going to pan out, good or bad - whether the plucky Blueshirts would be the team to beat this time around, after their heart-pounding run last season, or instead, if the front office would fall flat on its face and be the laughing-stock of hockey towns in two countries. That was the plan anyway, giving the hometown faithful a tingle of anticipation for the upcoming season for a change, and just in time as baseball is going to start winding down. Not so fast! Instead of the hockey pre-season getting underway as scheduled, the owners and players are caught up in another intractable contract dispute, leading to the second lock-out in 7 years, and dashing the hopes for legions of fans far and wide. For the local die-hards, this is a bitter pill to swallow indeed, landing the cream of the free agent crop for once and dreaming of glory days ahead, only to have the rug pulled out from under the victory parade before the first puck is dropped, thanks not. Well, all I have to say to the NHL hierarchy and owners is: "Puck you!" And while we're on the topic of unexpected developments, it was almost 7 years ago that we rescued a handsome long-hair orphan kitty from our yard, and with his mottled brown coat, he reminded me of a sort of ragamuffin cousin to our Invisible Matriarch, Muffin, so I called him RaggMopp. (Which in all fairness, is much too plebeian a name for such an aristocratic character, as he would be more than happy to point out.) His voluminous coat makes him appear large on the outside, but he doesn't act like a big cat, and mostly stays in one room by himself - and while not exactly timid, tends to ignore the other cats, presumably on the theory that if he doesn't acknowledge them, then they technically don't exist. Over the course of time, his excessive fur had finally gotten so badly matted, that when I brought him to the groomer, they had no choice but to shave off all of his long brown hair, and he came home looking like a tiny bald gray squirrel, and it was all we could do not to point and laugh uproariously. Although he looked positively wretched, we hoped that he actually felt better, at least in that his tender skin wasn't been pulled and pinched in every direction by an implacable web of knots, which must have been terribly uncomfortable. The first thing we noticed as soon as he came home, was that suddenly his entire personality changed, and he strutted all around without a care in the world, exploring upstairs and downstairs, in parts of the house that he had never set foot in all the years he's lived here. We decided that without all of his hair, he must now think that he's invisible, so it doesn't matter where he goes, or who else might be there. Meanwhile, the other cats that used to chase him around and lord it over him, have no idea who might be this new and bizarre looking interloper in their midst, and avoid him at all costs, probably because they think he's an escapee from the giant alien rat planet, and they want no part of him. It's certainly been a big change in the feline dynamic around here, and as entertaining to watch as getting a whole brand new cat in the household. Or to paraphrase the French royal court: "The Mopp is dead, long live the Ratt!" Elle

Just Desserts

Hello World, Happy September! You may be somewhere that back-to-school has already happened for the local schoolchildren, or perhaps not quite yet, because that situation seems to be a lot more hit-or-miss than it used to be, when the dinosaurs and I were going back to the old school-cave among the vast unformed land masses. Of course, all we learned about back then was dirt and rocks, and the best part was not having to practice penmanship, because writing hadn't been invented yet. Ah, those were the days indeed - until some crackpot came along and invented the wheel, and it's just been all downhill ever since, and I ought to know. It's no wonder they invented back-to-school wine, and not a moment too soon, I can assure you. Of course, Monday was Labor Day, and a day off for many people in the workaday world, besides being the unofficial last holiday weekend of the summer season, and a good time to take advantage of last-minute excursions while the weather is still nice. I took the opportunity to "super-size" my weekend, by taking off the previous Friday as well, and making a very long holiday weekend out of it, since I already had Monday off from work as it was. This idyllic interlude included a trip to the nail salon, dining out, and many other amusements, so there were no complaints on my part, that's for sure. In fact, even going back to work on Tuesday was not the wholesale disaster that I might have expected, and whereas the usual maxim is that "short weeks are the longest weeks" at work, this one was almost eerily quiet and calm from one end to the other. This is what I call "short weeks for sissies," and I'm all for it, by golly. Meanwhile on the home front, we could count on The Flag Brigade to hoist up the colors on Monday, upstairs and downstairs, in the patriotic spirit of American enterprise everywhere, and don't spare the horses. The weather was less than ideal, but it never actually rained on Old Glory, and the neighborhood was vastly improved by the star-spangled embellishment, o'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming and all that. It was an uneventful day out on the flagpoles, with none of the mishaps that bedeviled previous holidays, and it must be said that the somewhat unpredictable Flag Brigade even remembered to take the flags back in at the appropriate time, and not ripping them from their posts in the dead of night like some wild-eyed hooligan. So it was another successful flag-waving occasion all around, and the spirits of Samuel L. Gompers, Barbara Frietchie and even Francis Scott Key have nothing to begrudge, but can all safely rest in peace. Except for the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air, that is. Speaking of success, I have a well-founded reputation for being the person who is always searching for things that are not available, and when it comes to wild goose chases, well, I am the veritable poster child of geese gone wild, believe me. Oh, it may be something that is available at other times of the year, or it might be something that was once available in the past - and every so often (more often than I would care to admit) it's something that I must have just hallucinated out of a clear blue sky, and nobody in the world has any idea what I'm talking about. It was in the first category that I found myself lately, when the bounty of summer produce made me long for the succulent taste of ambrosia, that sweet, gooey confection that could genuinely be the nectar of the gods indeed. To the untrained observer, it would seem logical that with its refreshing blend of oranges, apricots, pineapple, grapes and cherries, it would be a natural for a delightful warm-weather dessert - but I can tell you that if you go looking for it in the summer, you will be sorely disappointed. I already know from experience that if you hound the deli manager at your local supermarket, they will assure you that it's more a holiday treat like fruitcake or rum balls, and to check back with them when it's time for mistletoe and holly, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and Santa Claus is coming to town, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. No, don't you believe it, because you will find the cupboard bare then too, and these self-same holiday spoil-sports will now attempt to convince you that the frothy indulgence of your dreams is only available in the heat of the picking season, when the fruity abundance is at its peak. At this rate, I despaired of ever getting my hands on its luscious goodness, and roundly denounced the wide-ranging conspiracy that was keeping it from my lips. Not so fast! Of course, everyone knows that Bill is not one to back down from a challenge, and he is also a prince among men with a multitude of talents at his command. He was more than equal to the task of whipping up a big bowl of ambrosia on the spot, and it was certainly worth waiting for by any standards, and that's not just the mini marshmallows talking, believe me. So the nefarious International Ambrosia Prevention Conspiracy (or NAMBLA, as Jon Stewart always says) no longer holds me in its thrall, and I can now shake my spoon with impunity in the teeth of its diabolical skullduggery, once and for all. And now we can see who has the last ho-ho-ho after all, and that's not just a lot of oh by gosh, by golly. And while we're on the subject of seeing the tail-end of things, and good riddance, I finally roused myself to action and resolved to tackle one of our unused and impenetrable rooms, that had long since been piled high and deep with assorted trash and cast-offs of all descriptions, so there was no place left where you could actually see any floor, and the supposed walls could only be inferred by virtue of holding up the ceiling. Underlying much of the detritus was what we always laughingly referred to as our "computer graveyard," where reposes the extraneous and outmoded technology of yesteryear, rendered obsolete by replacement or upgrades, and yet still taking up space in the event of emergencies, spare parts, or "just because." Well, that ship had sailed, as they say, and I was prepared to go all the way around Robin Hood's barn to clear that stash out of there, or know the reason why. I won't say that the space is now as pristine and empty as the relentless vacuum of a black hole, but I did carve out actual floor underfoot where a person could walk, and a preliminary sweep of outdated electronic equipment yielded 7 monitors, 3 CPUs, 2 printers, a fax machine, and more keyboards, mouses and miscellaneous cables than you would expect to see in any one place at the same time, outside of a computer superstore. In these light-weight and portable days, it's easy to forget that old bulky monitors were the size of a doghouse and weighed a ton, and desktop PCs were not far behind, so moving all of this stuff was a test of endurance that was not for the faint-hearted, believe me. And for all of you nostalgia fans out there, be advised that one of the computers boasts the very newest version of DOS, while another comes complete with the latest and greatest release of Windows 3.1 - probably back in the day when Bill Gates was still wearing short pants and braces, I shouldn't wonder. So flinging sentiment to the wind, it's out with the old around here, as we bid farewell to the claptrap of days gone by, and devil take the hind-most. Actually, my plan was to pack it all up and ship it off to the evil minions at the International Ambrosia Prevention Conspiracy, and call it even. So all I have to say to them now is good luck with that command prompt, and ho-ho-ho! Elle

On The Spot

Hello World, Happy Labor Day weekend! In the spirit of the legendary Samuel L. Gompers, I hope that you are taking a rest from your labors, and enjoying the official last weekend of the summer season, by wringing it out to the very last drop. This is a great time to leave the workaday world behind, and join the rank and file in some well-deserved rest and relaxation at last. A little extra time off sounds like just what the doctor ordered, so you want to take that prescription and fill it to the brim, by golly. Speaking of time off, it seems like challenging times in all forms of communications lately, as the inmates have been put in charge of the asylum, and the people who should know better, have all been on extended vacations or something. For instance, I couldn't help but notice this peculiar geographic anomaly on the AOL Welcome screen earlier in the week - ================== In Papa New Guinea, there are only three villages that still participate in what most would consider an absurdly dangerous religious practice ================== Our friends at wikipedia will be happy to tell you that Papua New Guinea is an independent island country north of Australia, and I don't mind saying that their national anthem, O Arise All You Sons, is worth hearing, believe me. Having been independent since way back in 1975, you would think even the witless minions at AOL would know enough not to call it Papa instead of Papua at this point. Unless it has a brand new bag, that is. Meanwhile at work, many of us at the employer of last resort were surprised to receive a broadcast email from our friends in the Payroll department, with this arresting subject line - =================== Direct Deposist for Holiday Payroll =================== The notice goes on to say that the payroll was processed as early as possible to "minimize any delays the banks may occur," and applies only to direct deposits and not "employees that receive actually paychecks." It may seem impossible to believe, but I can assure you that unlike many other departments at the hospital, which is a veritable United Nations of different cultures and dialects, every single person in the Payroll department is a 100% genuine certified American-born citizen for whom English is their first and only language. So why this memo appears to fly in the face of this irrefutable fact is a mystery to me, I'm sure. They fared no better in the local newspaper, where the Sports section featured a front-page story about the Yankees, in which their catcher played a key role - ==================== Russell Martin, who had been marred in a season-long slump, got the Yankees on the board with a home run in the second inning ==================== I can't help but think that they meant "mired" rather than "marred" in that situation, although I admit that it has a somewhat quirky backwoods charm when pronounced the other way instead. For all I know, whenever the sturdy backstop struck out, he might have thrown his cap in the dirt and muttered, "Tarnation!" I wouldn't take any bets on that, though. It also seems that the summer help has been letting the horoscope computer run amok in the TV section Best Bets lately, with results that are alternately painful or bewildering, such as this review of Meg's Great Room on HGTV - ================== A young couple desires to replace the mismatched, hand-me-down furniture they currently posses =================== Unfortunately, leaving that last "s" off of "possess" turns that into a completely different word altogether, which is what you get when Marshall Dillon rounds up a posse or two, and rides out of town after the bad guys. I'm sure that's not at all with the young couple had in mind for their living room. These next two actually appeared on the same day, the first from the movie, Meet the Fockers - ===================== Hilarity ensues when Greg Focker's eccentric parents meet his straight-laced future in-laws ===================== No, those in-laws may be on the straight and narrow, but like the world of strait-jackets, once you lace them up, it's "strait" and not "straight," no matter how hard you try. Later the same day, HGTV's Room by Novogratz offered this curious tidbit - ====================== Cortney and Bob design kids' rooms that combine elements of whimsy with a splashes of bright ====================== Well, as we always say, the spell-checker can't help you with that - and in fact, neither can I, because I have no idea where they were going with that fragment of a thought. But you wouldn't think it would take a whole suitcase full of brains for anyone (except the horoscope computer, apparently) to go back and realize that sentence made no sense and needed more than a little remediation, rather than just sending out like that, on its own in the great wide world. Also not making sense is this synopsis from the FX show, Anger Management - ======================== In an attempt to push pass inhibiting emotions, Charlie recommends a revolutionary new tactic ======================== Inasmuch as "push pass" doesn't mean anything, I'm hazarding a guess that they meant "push past" instead, and you can't blame the poor beleaguered spell-checker for looking the other way. It was another holiday for the spell-checker when these two different HGTV shows had exactly the same problem - ======================== A couple is thrilled to choose a Santa Fe vacation home that suites them best ======================== ========================= A couple is anxious to move into a Fort Worth home that will suite the husband's 6' 8" frame ========================= There's nothing sweet about using "suite" when you mean "suit," and while the latter can correctly function as a noun or a verb, there's no making "suite" into a verb, as they have attempted to in both of these examples, even by the lackadaisical standards of today, heaven knows. I'm not sure we can blame the horoscope computer at work, but on the other hand, I have no other explanation for these two entries in our vendor files that tickled my fancy - ========================= SPOTLIGHT PUBLICTIONS 3301 LANCATER PIKE WILMINGTON DE 19805 ========================= Of course, even the most rudimentary spell-checker will be happy to inform you that "publictions" is not a word, but I'm also guessing that "Lancater Pike" is not where this aggrieved enterprise is located anyway, and I'm thinking the smart money would be on "Lancaster" instead. The next one was directly below it, and made me laugh out loud - ========================= SPOTLIGHT REPERTY THEATRE P.O. BOX 368 PARKCHESTER STATION BRONX NY 10462 ========================= While I have no quarrel with people who want to spell "theater" another way, perhaps in the interests of appearing more posh, the same does not hold true of "repertory," which comes complete with one and only one right way to spell it, and "reperty" isn't it, I can tell you that. Now, I've long since gotten used to egregious spelling errors in the hospital vendor files, and considerably worse than this, but my favorite part of our friends at the repertory company was the idea that their esteemed "theatre" is located in a post office box in the Bronx, of all places. I realize that "all the world's a stage," but I'm thinking this would be incredibly uncomfortable for the audience and performers alike - and God forbid if they presented "My Fair Lady" with full orchestra besides! Personally, I'd rather round up a posse and find a Papa that suites me better, rather than stay marred in the same old straight-laced publictions, and in order to push pass any delays the banks may occur, I'll take mine with a splashes of bright, thank you very much. Elle