myweekandwelcometoit

Saturday, June 29, 2013

American Dad

Hello World, Whoa, Nellie! A reasonable person might be justifiably perturbed to discover that this is the very last weekend in June already, and there's no avoiding the fact that July will be showing up right on schedule on Monday, ready or not. And while everyone knows how I hate to be an alarmist, I can't help but point out that it will put us more than halfway past the middle of the year, and stepping onto that slippery slope where the weeks start to fly by at a dizzying pace, until everything is just one great big blur, and then suddenly it's Christmas. In fact, it was more than a week ago, and still about the middle of June, mind you, when I received our very first 2014 promotional calendar in the mail, and I think we can all agree that it goes without saying, thanks oh so very much not. Next it will be the Christmas music catalogs at church, and corporate greeting cards for all my holiday needs. I just love sleigh bells and holly berries in the summer, don't you? Of course, the previous week on Sunday was Father's Day, and a perfect time to honor the men in our lives who have blessed us with their strength and kindness, integrity and ingenuity - not to mention, being the good-natured butt of endless jokes about beer, television, sports, cars, blondes, junk food, and personal hygiene, to name just a few. All over this great land of ours, from sea to shining sea and from the mountains to the prairies and back again, fathers have no choice but to graciously accept yet another hideous necktie from eager youngsters, or mis-shapen clay ashtrays, key fob lanyards, and picture frames made out of popsicle sticks. We have no such horror stories here, as the cats have yet to present their dear old dad with a necktie of any sort, and their gift-giving habits run the more traditional gamut of entertainment, gadgets, slippers and the like. Actually, their first choice would be catnip mice and Fancy Feast, but they're shrewd enough to understand that the man who wields the can opener is the king of the castle, so keeping him happy is a pretty high priority in their furry little minds, or rather, their tummies. There were no complaints from the Patrius Felinus (Bill's Indian name is: "Man With Many Cats") so I guess we can all agree that the day was just about purr-fect. The NBA finals eventually wrapped up after 7 games with a re-Heat, as Miami won their second consecutive title, and third in franchise history. This should come as a surprise to nobody, after the high-profile transactions to bring three of the game's top marquee players to the team all in one fell swoop - but it can't be denied that the plucky San Antonio Spurs played them tough the whole way, and after 7 grueling games in a see-saw series, the outcome was no foregone conclusion. So we've closed the book on that part of the NBA season, and moved onto the next chapter of outdoor summer hoops, firing coaches, the draft, and off-season trades and deals that could change the complexion of the league in new and unexpected ways, that don't necessarily conform to the official King James version, as it were. So a word of warning to anyone planning on a three-Heat in 2014, I wouldn't go ahead and print up those souvenir T-shirts just yet - that is, unless you've made some sort of Faustian bargain with the evil spirit of Affirmed, and then all bets are off. On the frozen front, the NHL Stanley Cup finals pitted the Chicago Blackhawks against the Boston Bruins in an "Original Six" match-up so beloved by traditionalists, before the rest of the thundering herd joined the fray starting in 1967, changing the face of the game forever more, to the continuing delight, or dismay, of their dozens upon dozens of fans in two countries. It ended up with Chicago over Boston in 6 bruising games with the merest razor-thin margin of victory in each one, making this the Blackhawks' second Cup in 4 years, after a drought of 50 years before that. So once again, we've now closed the book on that part of the season, and since there is no such thing as outdoor summer ice hockey (and many dozens of hard-core fans would agree, more's the pity, I'm sure) everyone will simply have to fend for themselves in the interim, until it's time to hit the ice once more. That will be here before we know it, as the pre-season starts in September, with training camps open the month before that. Heck, there's hardly enough time for the idle players to get into trouble on their own, which might have been the plan all along. Say, maybe those owners aren't as dumb as they look, after all! In other sports news, in what can only be described as a bizarre turn of events, with perhaps a healthy dollop of wishful thinking tossed in for good measure, the addle-pated brain-trust at the New York Rangers hired the coach from the Vancouver Canucks (who was fired when he couldn't prevent them from being unceremoniously swept out of the first round of the playoffs) and the even more muddle-headed whiz-kids in Vancouver hired John Tortorella, who had just been fired by the Rangers for failing to get his team past the second round of the playoffs - presumably with the intention that both coaches will somehow have better results with a different team. (?????) Am I the only one who sees something radically wrong with this picture? The new Rangers coach Alain Vigneault amassed a 310-227 record in 7 seasons with Vancouver, who were perennial contenders, but were unable to win a Stanley Cup during his tenure behind the bench. Naturally, it behooves each and every one of us to wish him all the luck in the world, in his attempts to get the under-achieving Rangers to accomplish something that the under-performing Canucks couldn't do, and vice versa. Meanwhile, former Rangers great Mark Messier, who had been angling for the job, said there were no hard feelings at being passed over, as he summarily quit his job in the front office after 4 years, and struck off on his own to sulk - I mean, to explore other opportunities far from the confines of the World's Most Famous Arena. So it should be interesting times ahead, as the pride of Broadway regroups in the off-season, and looking forward to better days to come in the fall, where hope springs eternal, and every player could be the next Wayne Gretzky. Or maybe it just seems that way, if you've been hit in the head with too many pucks, at which point, trading coaches with the Vancouver Canucks probably doesn't sound like such a hare-brained idea after all, and they've no doubt got the jack-rabbits to prove it, I shouldn't wonder. Alert readers may recall a few weeks back, where the phrase "Et tu, Papa Smurf" was used to ironic effect in a commentary about the appalling depths to which summer movies had sunk, leaving us mired in a graveyard long on technical wizardry but short on inspiration. Of course, even the most backward schoolchild can tell you that the original phrase, "Et tu, Brute" is permanently seared into their consciousness from William Shakespeare's iconic play, "Julius Caesar," which is to the educational curriculum as "Thou Shalt Not" is to The Ten Commandments, only even more sacrosanct, and that's not just a lot of holy Moses, believe me. Now everyone is aware that it doesn't take much to rile up the academic community, heaven knows, and apparently this is another one of those instances where something that seems innocuous and inconsequential, instead has stirred up a fire-storm of protest on all sides. Roman scholars appear universally outraged at The Bard's fanciful invention that these were the doomed Caesar's last words, and even a cursory search of the expression turns up pages and pages of results, all in a veritable lather over this literary scandal. Typical is www.TodayIFoundOut.com, where they fume, "these famous last words are a historical fiction .... should provoke historical indignation." While at www.mahalo.com, the Mahalo Answers research team sneers, " ... Gaius Julius Caesar's actual last words (not Shakespeare's)" as if poetic license were a crime against humanity. The experts rage and rant, page after page, quoting contemporary sources like Suetonius and Plutarch, reconstructing the final confrontation with the Senators, and blasting Shakespeare's intricately plotted masterpiece to smithereens in a hail of pedantic bullets. The dinosaurs will be happy to tell you that I'm just about as persnickety as anybody, and way more than the next fellow, and this sort of arcane, infinitesimal controversy should be mother's milk to me, and ready to hop aboard that bandwagon with the rest of the antiquarian zealots on their high horses of righteous indignation, and let the croutons fall where they may. (Sorry, wrong Caesar!) However, on the road to righting a historical travesty, I couldn't help but notice other commentators weighing in on the subject, who pointed out in a reasonable manner that Shakespeare was merely repeating a quote that was already in common usage at the time of his famous tragedy's inception, and far from coining the expression himself, was depending on it having already acquired the sense of "being betrayed by a trusted ally," to fit right in with his dramatic narrative in a way that the audience would immediately comprehend. Oh well, so much for historical outrage and academic indignation over this imbroglio, which has instead served to vindicate His Bardness, and make the scoffers and nay-sayers look like the jealous, petty nit-pickers that they are, after all. In basketball, they would call this "no harm, no foul," but I'm afraid that it doesn't make any sense to me, because I obviously haven't been hit in the head with enough hockey pucks. Say, who let Mark Messier in here? Elle

Friday, June 21, 2013

I'd Rather Be Red

Hello World, Happy Summer! As any self-respecting Druid can tell you, the solstice occurs on June 21 this year, which actually means, believe it or not, that the days are already starting to get shorter from this point forward, as hard as that might be to believe. At this rate, summer will be over before it's even started, and then where will we be, I ask you that. Alert readers may be wondering, and well may they wonder, if Memorial Day has already come and gone, whatever happened with my sister's famous blowout BBQ over the 3-day holiday weekend, and 40 years in the making - frequented by far-flung friends and relatives from all 50 states, the farthest corners of the globe, and the deepest recesses of outer space, with all major alien groups from far distant galaxies well represented and equally welcome. Bill and I went on Saturday, when the weather was just plain horrible - 50 degrees with pelting rain that was blowing sideways, chasing the small band of hardy revelers indoors to huddle for warmth and refreshments. It was better on Sunday and Monday, and I'm sure as usual, their expansive property was awash with crowds, games, food, crafts, music and drinks of every kind, or whatever it takes to keep 'em coming back for more, year after year after year. We were sorry to miss the Klingons and Romulans, but it was probably just as well, because if they can't get along in the unfathomable vastness of space, then stuffing them into a one-room log cabin would be nothing but a recipe for disaster, with dilithium crystals on top. I'm guessing this is why they invented warp speed in the first place. In other (very) local news, and this of a more extraordinary nature, about the last thing we were expecting recently, was for our mechanic to give us very bad news about the Escort, after doing his best to repair its sluggish brakes. He explained that not only were the brakes the best they were ever going to be, but over time it had developed so many other problems that it was never going to pass inspection when it needed to, and there was no possibility that it was going to make it all the way out to VacationLand in July for a week in the woods. This was disheartening news indeed, especially since our mechanic is usually our one and only source for reputable used cars, and at the time that we were most desperate for one to be available, he didn't have any. So that was how we found ourselves in the unenviable position of having to brave the perilous waters of automobile merchants, and get our grubby paws on some other car, and not to mention, in a big fat hurry besides. The President's economic advisers may scoff, but please don't bother to tell me about how bad the economy is, because we discovered in our travels that the car dealers aren't even open on Saturday or Sunday, so that tells you something right there, Alan Greenspan. That didn't stop us from making the rounds of the used car lots along Route 1 where they cluster like termites around a wooden cigar store Indian (now THERE'S an analogy that's lost on young people nowadays, Geronimo) but we saw nothing that seemed promising, mostly giant SUVs and full-size sedans, or tiny 2-seat sports cars. My personal wish list of features seemed simple enough to fulfill - I wanted something that was not too big to handle, with four doors and a trunk, and after that, just about anything would have been fine. After much fruitless searching, and trudging through lots full of clunkers and cast-offs of all descriptions, we finally went back to the used car lot where Bill had gotten his snazzy Dodge Neon (and loves it still) and hoped for the best. Tucked away in a corner, we happened to spot a cute shiny red 2008 Chevy Aveo that was just a little darling, and with four doors and a trunk, was right up my alley. I never heard of it either, and it turns out they say it "ah - VAY - oh," which as made-up names go, is certainly not at the top of anyone's list, especially mine. For myself, this can't help but call to mind, although perhaps nobody else remembers, the old TV commercials for Aviance perfume by Prince Matchabelli, with the perky housewife dancing around the kitchen in her housecoat, whipping a dish towel around and singing: "I've been sweet and I've been good, I've had a whole full day of motherhood, But I'm gonna have an Aviance night ..... " [hunky guy shows up at front door in a tuxedo, while chorus chimes in] "Oh yeah, she's gonna have an Aviance night!" It turns out the Aveo was first manufactured in 2002 by the South Korean GM Daewoo division and is not still in production any longer, having been replaced after the 2011 model by the new Chevy Cruze, that you often see commercials for on television nowadays. (Personally, I think it would have been more successful for Chevrolet without such a stupid name, especially when you're making it up yourself and you have the whole alphabet to choose from. On the other hand, it was also known by different names in other countries - such as Kalos, Lova, Gentra, Vida, and Holden Barina - so I suppose that things can always be worse.) When we finally got in touch with the dealer after many attempts [ see Alan Greenspan note, above ] we learned the car was a little more on the pricey side than we would have liked, but came with only 33,000 miles on it, and in excellent condition, as well as loaded with all the latest and greatest accessories, at least for cars being built 5 years ago. Throwing caution to the wind, we took it for a test drive over to our mechanic, who loved it and found no flaws in it - and with its low mileage and mint condition, figured it was worth about $5,000 more than the dealer was selling it for. All that mattered to me was that I really liked it, and it wasn't some schlocky-looking lump that would be so unbearably boring, that I would fall asleep while I was driving it. (Or even worse, a silver doorstop with a spoiler, that I would be so embarrassed I would have no choice but to drive around town wearing a bag over my head, after years of tossing brickbats and insulting invective at them in my weekly curmudgeon-fests since time out of mind.) In fact, this one was in the best shape of any car I've had in the last 30 years, and it was chockfull of all the pep and pizzazz that I could ever hope for - especially considering that it just popped up like a shiny red miracle, at exactly the moment when a miracle was called for, and that's not just the perfume talking, Prince Matchabelli. Of course, it certainly is red red red and more red, there's no question about that as far as red cars go, which as anyone will be happy to tell you, are - (A) bad luck, (B) involved in more accidents, (C) ticketed more often, (D) stolen more frequently, and (E) charged higher insurance rates, than vehicles of a less incendiary hue. I don't know if all of that is true, but I suppose we'll find out as we go along. The one thing I can say for sure is that you never realize how many red cars are out there, until you start driving one, and then you see that they're everywhere you look. I won't say it's exactly a sea of red, but if you think you're seeing red spots before your eyes, it's not just your imagination, cherry cherry. Anyone from a far distant galaxy who hasn't bought a car lately, would fancifully assume that all you need to do is find the auto, pay the seller, and be on your merry way in the full bloom of motorized contentment, and don't spare the horses, my good man. Not so fast! From the time we first struck a deal for it, until we actually had physical possession of the car in our midst, it stretched out for a whopping 26 days, 5 hours and 30 minutes (but who's counting) and we still don't have the title or registration for it, even still. Since we had already turned over the Escort to him, the dealer had no choice but to give us a loaner in the meantime, which was actually another red Chevy Aveo, most likely an earlier model year of the same basic brand. This older and shopworn jalopy was lumpish by comparison, in a garish flaming red not at all like mine, and none of the amenities that would compensate for its shortcomings, just very bare bones minimalist transportation for people with no other alternatives. It seemed badly beat up and quivering, with a mysterious clunking noise from the underside that in no way instilled confidence in driver or passenger alike, and I ought to know. The first things I managed to figure out were the lights and wipers, electric windows and key fob for locking and unlocking the doors, so at least I could get to work and back, without looking like I had just stolen the car and had no idea how to operate it. After 3 weeks, I finally found the horn - it's one of those tiny tooty things, so that when you honk at anybody, no matter how mad or alarmed you might be at whatever they're doing, people think you're being friendly, and they all wave back at you, instead of having the desired effect. Heck, you may as well carry around a little rubber ducky squeak toy and use that instead, for all the good it does. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if "Aveo" is Korean for "rubber ducky squeak toy" after all. In all the excitement, I admit that I completely forgot that you can't just go ahead and park anywhere at the hospital, without a vehicle identification sticker, so after about 2 weeks, the poor loaner got slapped with a giant VIOLATION tag by our crack Security department, thanks not - and which I don't mind saying, was no improvement to its looks, believe me. I had to drop what I was doing and dash across the street to Personnel for a temporary parking pass in the interim, and protect the loaner from any further indignities. However, the good news was that at least it reminded me that when I finally got the new car, I needed to make sure to get an ID sticker before leaving it in the big lot and suffering the same fate for the same reason. I mean, everyone knows that red cars get more tickets, there's no sense in me going out there and making things even worse. Anyway, that's the story of my new (very gently used) car, and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't - Little Big Red, along with Red Adair Red Barber Red Buttons Red Grange Red John Red Rover Red Skelton Red Sonja Red Widow and the rest of the Rubber Ducky Red Tag Team

Sunday, June 16, 2013

That's The Spirit

Hello World, The time has surely come, and not a moment too soon, when we can join with the ancient Roman soothsayers in announcing: "Beware the Ides of June," if in fact, they ever had occasion to make that observation. In many places, schools are already out, except for those students taking Regents exams, and it's "no more homework, no more books" for the next three months or so. That may be good news for some, and not such great news for others (and I think you know who you are) and while I won't be the one who says that it causes a spike in psychiatric visits by parents, I think it's safe to assume that many people not currently under a doctor's direct care may indeed be self-medicating with their preferred drug of choice, if you know what I mean. Of course, anyone can tell you that mine is chocolate, and don't spare the nuts and nougat while you're at it, my good man. It's true that Friday was Flag Day, from sea to shining sea, from purple mountains majesty to amber waves of grain, from the redwood forests to the gulf-stream waters, and from the dawn's early light to the twilight's last gleaming, with liberty and justice for all. Unfortunately, the weather forecast was too ominous to risk hoisting Old Glory in the not-so-great outdoors, and we had to console ourselves with flying the colors at home, in the library and sun porch as we always do, when they're not outside lending their patriotic hues to the neighborhood. Of course, the dinosaurs and I realize that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, but there are very strict rules about the national emblem being out in inclement weather, and I figure that I'm already on the wrong side of the aggrieved Barbara Frietchie's unquiet spirit as it is, after completely forgetting about Decoration Day, so I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and didn't chance it. I'll admit that we can't count on The Flag Brigade for much around here, but by golly, nobody's going to rain on Francis Scott Key's parade while I'm on the job, and that's not just a lot of stars and stripes forever, by Souza. Last Saturday saw the 145th running of the venerable Belmont Stakes, making it easily the oldest of the Triple Crown races - although trailing behind them on the schedule, it all too often falls victim to a bottomless trough of apathy when there's no potential Triple Crown winner in the offing, such as this year. Hopes were high that Kentucky Derby victor Orb, or Preakness winner Oxbow, could run away with two of the three, and the odds reflected this optimism, with Orb at 3-1 and Oxbow at 5-1 when the race started. However, it was not to be, alas, as the 13-1 long-shot, Palace Malice, handily took the longer length in stride, and won by 3-1/4 lengths with Oxbow and Orb trailing behind him, along with the rest of the field of 14 starters. Palace Malice, who had set the pace at the Derby, went off in that race at 25-1, leading most of the way, but then fading badly to finish a dismal 12th at the end. His owners elected to skip the Preakness, giving him more time to prepare for the Belmont, and that strategy certainly paid off in spades - or should I say, carnations, since a blanket of carnations is awarded to the winner of the race. (Even the Belmont loyalists would concede that "run for the carnations" has never caught on in the American lexicon the way "run for the roses" has at Churchill Downs, and that's not just the mint juleps talking either.) And you can surely tell that the evil spirit of Affirmed has been working overtime from the great beyond, because instead of a singular exceptional horse capturing the public's attention with the expectation that a new Triple Crown winner could be a real possibility, the reality is that this is the 4th time in 5 years that a different horse has won each of the three races. I've said before that I don't know what it would take to shake the late Affirmed's steely grip on the record (here I'm betting that Babe Ruth wishes he had that book of hexes, by George - not to mention, Roger Bannister) but I'll know that we've finally turned a corner when horses start showing up in the starting gate with names like Pact With The Devil, I Ain't Afraid o' No Curse, and Death to Affirmed. Somewhere off in the distance, Seattle Slew would be having a great big laugh. In our continuing efforts to rejuvenate our flagging spirits and weary bodies, we paid a visit to a local establishment that we had recently discovered right under our very noses on Main Street in the pulsating heart of the Queen City's bustling downtown scene. On a lackluster part of the street, chockablock with Peruvian restaurants, jewelry stores and insurance agencies, we stumbled across the Tranquil Spirit Day Spa (and please feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at www.tranquilspiritspa.com and see for yourself) where they offer the latest in hair techniques, massage, aromatherapy, facials, reflexology, nail care, paraffin treatment, body scrubs, waxing, and hot stone therapy for whatever ails you, and then some. Unlike many salons that we have tried lately, whose staff was all firmly rooted in Communist regimes (and may I say for the record, and the KGB agents monitoring my email, "I love Mother Russia," comrade, and Chairman Mao is my idol, yellow peril or not) this new place was populated with friendly island natives who were like a breath of fresh tropical air. Although a plain-looking storefront outside, it had a spacious and well-appointed interior, with plenty of comfy furnishings, soft lighting, flickering candles, and delightful fragrances wafting everywhere. Bill had signed me up for a mani-pedi and foot massage, while he opted for a massage, and we embarked upon our adventure with high hopes. It must be said that the ladies were extremely attentive (in welcome contrast to salons where they pointedly ignore you at the door) and genuinely wanted us to relax and enjoy the enveloping ambience of calm and quiet that they had worked so hard to achieve in a busy urban setting. Unfortunately, the place had too many drawbacks for us to try it again - not just that it seemed wildly overpriced, but also that we were disappointed in the services provided. But even if I loved my mani-pedi and foot massage (which I didn't) the deal-breaker for me would have been their music. They actually played the same song for one solid interminable hour, the entire time I was there, over and over and over again, until I was just about ready to scream. It was way too loud to ignore as just random background music, and although it started out as a nice enough tune, the constant repetition quickly turned it into a kind of vile water torture that even the big bad Commies would have drawn the line at. I was thinking this might be the handiwork of Barbara Frietchie, stalwart protector of our country's flag through the centuries and across the great divide - but frankly, this has all the earmarks of the evil spirit of Affirmed to be a coincidence. And let's face it, has anyone ever seen Chairman Mao and Affirmed in the same place at the same time? As they used to say in communist Russia, "Nyet!" Or in this case, perhaps that should be, "Neigh!" Elle

Sunday, June 09, 2013

Out of the Ink Well

Hello World, Well, it can't be denied that we are certainly now in the season of dads and grads, brides and proms, with enough presents and fancy clothes, parties and travel, to make the President's economic advisers positively giddy with euphoria, and that's not just the limousines talking, believe me. Somewhere amidst all of the gloom and chill recently, there must have been some sun and warmer weather, because we had roses popping open all over the yard, from the creamiest pale pinks to the deepest velvet burgundies, and all the intoxicating fragrance to go along with them. The mountain laurel also burst into bloom, while along the driveway, the daylilies are poised to put on a show of their own. Last year, we went to a lot of time and trouble, not to mention expense and effort, to add Japanese primrose to our garden, with the intention that we would be enjoying the fruits of our labors right about now - which we would probably be doing, except that we can't remember what it looks like, or where we planted it, so we don't even know where to look. Our plan is to go back to the nursery and buy more, hoping to be more successful the second time - and that sound you hear is the President's economic advisers jumping up and down and cheering, I shouldn't wonder. And what may be new and exciting in the wide world of hoops, you may be wondering, and well may you wonder indeed. Miami finally ousted Indiana to reach the NBA finals, but it took them 7 grueling games to do the deed, and it must be said that the Pacers played them tough the whole way. Now all that stands between the Heat and a second consecutive trophy would be those pesky Spurs, and it will be interesting to see if they are equal to the task, after manhandling the Grizzlies in the previous round. We all know by now that anything can happen in a short series, and there are no guarantees in the playoffs, so it remains to be seen if the results will turn out to be as sweet as Florida citrus, or as lovely as my San Antonio rose, and don't spare the champagne, my good man. In other sports news, any number of alert readers (well, actually it was Bill) have pointed out a mistake in my previous note, in spite of the rigorous efforts by our research department, and we're always happy to set the record straight to maintain the high level of pinpoint accuracy that we strive for above all else. The fact of the matter is that the Indy 500 stands for 500 miles, and not 500 laps, as the participants run a total of 200 laps over a 2.5 mile oval racetrack in order to achieve the allotted distance. We have our friends at wikipedia to thank for this clarification, as they are all over this like a bad suit, with all the details and minutiae that anyone could hope for, and some that you'd really rather not know in the first place. The average speed of 187.43 MPH set a new track record in the fabled race's history, and sounds mighty impressive - but even more amazing was that the fastest lap was run at a blistering speed of 226.94 MPH by Justin Wilson, who finished in 5th place. Heck, if he had kept up that pace for the whole race, he would have had the place to himself - and I daresay that even the ghost of Affirmed would have had trouble sabotaging his chances, and that's not just a lot of horsefeathers, my little pony. It's no secret that Bill and I recently celebrated our 30th anniversary, and over the course of that time, we've certainly had our share, and more, of stray cats that passed through our hands, one way or another - some for a short time and others longer, but each one special in their own way, even here, where it's all too easy to get lost in a crowd. Some were blessed with good looks that a modeling agency would drool over, while others had what could only be described in kindness as a face that only a mother could love. We've known cats with an intellect that was astonishing in its comprehension, and more than a few whose lack of brain power would rank them well below rocks on any test of skill. Of course, cats come in all shapes and sizes, and especially colors, and we've pretty much had them all and run the gamut, from the snowiest white to the inkiest black, and every combination in between. Along with the standard orange tabbies and gray stripes, we've had plenty of black and black/mixed, like Baudelaire, Sharlowe, Pinto, Tom-Tom, Captain Midnight and Smokey Jo, who carried the color with distinction and did it justice. Often we would have more than one at a time, but when we lost our last two within 6 months of each other, we suddenly found ourselves in a sea of gray with tinges of brown on every side, and a lone tangerine tiger to break up the monotony, but not a black hair to be seen anywhere. That all changed this week, and in a big way - in fact, to say that it was a black magic double whammy would not be overstating the case. It all started with Truffle, a skittish black neighborhood stray with white feet, who we had been feeding outside for months, although this seemed to do nothing to improve his opinion of us or people in general, and he never did warm up to us, in spite of our most determined efforts. One day he showed up limping badly, which at first deluded us into believing that he would be easier to catch, but I have to tell you this kitty was pretty spry for a three-legged cat, and we could no more have caught him on the fly than we could have snagged a Minuteman missile in mid-air - and I don't need to try that to know that we can't do it, believe me. So instead, we set out our trusty trap, and although he seemed inclined to thwart our plans, in the end he took the bait, and we lugged him and the trap to the emergency animal clinic for medical attention. A thorough examination revealed that his foot was not broken, and would not require surgery, but had a very serious abscess, possibly from a fight. They cleaned him up, gave him his shots and antibiotics, wormer and whatnot, then kept him overnight to make sure he was stabilized. We brought him home the next day, and put him in a room by himself, where he could recuperate in peace and quiet, and hopefully become more acclimated to the idea of living in the great indoors. So far, my favorite part was that they sent him home with a soft collar to keep him from chewing on the bandage, and after 2 days he had worked the collar from his neck to down around his hips, so that he looked like he was wearing a tutu. This was on a scale of Mr. T from "The A Team" wearing a tutu, so you can believe me when I say that even the dinosaurs would agree that it was a comic masterpiece of mythic proportions, and that's not just the toe shoes talking, by golly. At exactly the same moment, another cat came to our attention, desperately in need of a good home and none in sight, so with time running out and a dearth of options, we stepped in and made the dream a reality. We picked her up last Saturday, and discovered that unlike Truffle, there's nothing tuxedo about this Inky female, she's absolutely solid pitch black, all the way from the tip of her ebony nose to the very end of her (kinked) tail, and from top to bottom to boot. A further distinction is that she's also along the dimensions usually reserved for medium-sized dogs, or wildlife of the raccoon variety, and I ought to know. Now, we've had some pretty hefty critters in our day, that tipped the scale in the large numbers, with a length and girth that would make grown men quail before them, but even we weren't expecting anything like this. It's entirely possible that the Miami Heat are not in the market for anyone with her ample proportions, but I'm expecting a call from the New York Jets at any time now. (Oh, hit that easy target!) So it's been an eventful week around the old homestead lately, where we went from having no black cats at all, to having 2 in the same week, and pretty much like the proverbial bolt out of the blue, as it were. Of course, Truffle has spent the better part of the week hiding under the sink in the guest bathroom, while Inky has been secluded under the armchair in the library, so we might actually end up with another pair of invisible cats that we never see, and when we claim to have two black cats, people would think we're even more delusional than usual. Speaking of delusions, I told Mr. T that he could come and get his tutu back, but he was on his own as far as finding toe shoes, and it goes without saying, I pity the fool. Elle

Saturday, June 01, 2013

Will o' the Wisp

Hello World, Happy June! It's not your imagination, Saturday is the time for the month to start busting out all over, and pretty soon school will be out, so that tells you something right there, about how summer will be right on top of us before we know it. In keeping with the season, we needed to clear out a closet where the air conditioners were stored, so Bill figured he might as well just put them in the windows as long as he was moving them anyway, and be done with it. Of course, as anyone could tell you, that would be all it would take to plunge the whole region into a deep freeze, which is exactly what happened the previous week, and for which we have no choice but to take full responsibility. The overnight temperatures were in the 40's, and the daytime not much better, with leaden skies and sporadic showers, as well as a biting wind that was no joke. The joke came later, when Monday and Tuesday found me bundled up in flannel nightgowns and wool socks, followed by Thursday and Friday, when it hit 90 degrees with wilting humidity, thanks not. On the other hand, I'm happy to report that the exertions of The Flag Brigade worked better than might have been expected on Monday the 27th, running up the colors in the morning and taking them back in again after dinner, but it can't be denied that they completely forgot about the whole idea on Thursday the 30th in spite of conspicuous reminder notes for that specific purpose, alas. So, traditional Decoration Day came and went with a notable lack of decoration around here, and that sound you hear is the unquiet spirit of the aggrieved Barbara Frietchie, and I can't say that I blame her one bit. Always right on time, last Sunday saw the 97th running of the Indianapolis 500, a Memorial Day weekend mainstay, and beloved by racing fans the world over. I notice that it always seems to rain on race day, as if the weather gods had their own editorial comment about this annual celebration of noise, petroleum, engineering and wrecks. The storied race was first run in 1911 and took over 6-1/2 hours to complete 500 laps, at an average speed of 74.6 MPH, which must have seemed blisteringly fast to the general public back then. Putting this in perspective, this year's winner, Tony Kanaan, crossed the finish line after a mere 2 hours and 40 minutes, with an average speed of 187.43 MPH - which unfortunately, doesn't seem in the slightest way remarkable to anybody at all nowadays. The crowded field of 33 drivers included 4 women, which also is not remarkable to anybody these days, with Ana Beatriz in 15th place finishing at the top of her gender, and the other ladies clocking in at 17th, 26th and 30th out of the pack. There were no crashes, and the weather was not a factor - although it must be said that I got this information from an article that described the racetrack as a "superpeedway" (gee, I sure hope not!) so I'm not exactly certain how much I can trust the accuracy of their data. Heck, I think even The Flag Brigade can do better than that. And speaking of the venerable Brickyard, I guess this is as good a time as any to share my all-time favorite racing story, which admittedly is not much of a distinction, since it may be the only racing story I know. The way I heard it, one year in the early days of the famous race, one of the big city newspapers arranged to have one of the local reporters cover the event and transmit the results back to them, to spare the paper the expense of sending one of their own reporters all the way there and back. The eager young man was delighted to receive their request, and quickly fired off a telegram (that's the 19th century equivalent of today's email, for you young whipper-snappers out there) with the message: "WILL OVERHEAD WINNER OF INDY 500" right back at them. What he meant was, using the common vernacular of the day, that when he had the results, he would send his story to them the fastest way, via overhead telegraph wires, which he expected they would certainly understand - rather than going to all the trouble and expense of saying "I will send you a telegram with the winner of the Indy 500" as if they were a bunch of backwoods rubes who had no notion of modern technology. What happened instead is that the wire was mis-directed to someone who wasn't in on the original plan, took it at face value, and hurried it to the copy room, to get it into the paper before press time and scoop the competition. One of the sportswriters fabricated an entire story out of whole cloth about the intrepid Will Overhead, a racing novice who came out of nowhere in a dense field packed with cagey veteran drivers, to take the checkered flag at the Indy 500, in a surprise victory that was dramatic and unforgettable. No doubt the story thrilled the hearts of the big city readers who got a jump on the other dailies with this news flash recounting the daring exploits of the invincible, but oh so non-existent, Will Overhead. And that, my friends, is how a lowly cub reporter from a community tabloid, inadvertently invented a racing legend, who not only had his imaginary name splashed all over a major newspaper chain, but also managed to win a contest where he wasn't even entered to begin with. Of course, there's a better than average chance that this story, great as it may be, is totally apocryphal, but I really don't want to know. I'm sticking with Liberty Valance on this one, and the unquenchable spirit of Will Overhead lives on in lore and legend, if only in my own imagination. In other sports news, the poor over-matched Rangers lost to the big, bad Bruins in 5 games, and promptly fired their coach, in spite of a 171-148 won-loss record, or .536 winning percentage that was the best in franchise history. Of course, Christopher Columbus is the poster child of the "What Have You Done For Us Lately" school of thought, so this would come as no surprise to him, although it might seem somewhat incongruous to more logical people, who would tend to fix the blame on the players themselves who are on the ice, and not the man in the suit behind the bench. And proving that the world of athletics has turned completely upside-down, if in fact, any more proof was needed, the hapless Mets beat the vaunted Yankees in four straight games, which sounds like nothing so much as The Bizarro Universe version of summer baseball, and I'm sure, had the odds-makers laughing all the way to The Bank That Ruth Built, by George. It's only a lucky thing this happened in May, when the games don't mean anything, rather than the thick of October's pennant races, or there would be a full-blown pinstripe panic meltdown from one end of Mudville to the other. As it is, this is just an anomalous blip on the Bombers' season, where they are still firmly fixed near the top the AL East standings, while the hapless Mets, even after winning 5 in a row, remain mired in the division's nether regions, a woeful 8 games under .500 and 10 games out already - with no reinforcements on the horizon riding to the rescue of the beleaguered outpost, as it were. Here I'm thinking, Will Overhead would certainly come in handy, if only he existed in the first place, alas. Everyone knows that we already went to see Iron Man 3 in the theater several weeks ago, which was the unofficial kickoff to the summer movie season, thrilling audiences with the best of the new and the novel and the notable that Tinseltown has to offer. Not so fast! It seems that the middle of 2013 promises to be the summer of repeats, retreads, sequels, prequels, rehashes and remakes - or what the pundits are referring to as "deja viewed," and that's not just a lot of Raisinets, believe me. Here is just a sample of what's already out, and what we still have to look forward to, in this uninspired season, and if you spot a single original idea in here anywhere, please let me know: Superman, Man of Steel The Great Gatsby Thor: The Dark World The Wolverine Star Trek Into Darkness The Hangover 3 Fast and Furious 6 The Hunger Games: Catching Fire Monsters U 300: Rise of an Empire The Lone Ranger Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters Despicable Me 2 Grown Ups 2 RED 2 Smurfs 2 Et tu, Papa Smurf? I said to Bill, what's next - Hopalong Cassidy and Lash LaRue? Sky King and Sgt. Preston of the Yukon?? Lassie and Francis the talking mule??? Honestly, it's stupefying to think of the untold millions upon millions that the over-stuffed Hollywood honchos rake in, year after year, with the purpose of creating memorable motion picture entertainment, to satisfy a clamoring public with their innovations - and instead, this is the best they can come up with. Heck, if this was the Rangers, they'd all be fired by now, and that's without "Ma & Pa Kettle Meet The Keystone Kops," by golly. Now, I'm not claiming that The Flag Brigade could do any better, heaven knows, but it's at times like this you really miss having a hero to look up to, someone who can ride in and save the day, making the world a better place and restoring our faith in humanity. Alas, by a cruel twist of fate, or rather fiction, Will Overhead has been snatched from our grasp, and in the words of the Irish lament, "we hardly knew ye!" Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't - Liberty Valance