North By Northwest

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves perched on the very brink of September, with the last day of August on Saturday, and hopefully taking its famous "dog days" right along with it when it goes. With summer all but over bar the shouting, and back to school about to become an all-too-real prospect for students everywhere (or already, in some places) there's nothing left for us but to face forward to the fall and leave our golden carefree days behind us. Of course, for some people, who shall remain nameless but look suspiciously like me, and have yet to pack away their camping supplies for the season, it's a little bit harder to look fall full in the face, while the straggling remnants of vacation are still nipping at our heels, and I can assure you that snide comments from The Peanut Gallery will be to no advantage whatsoever. But for all the rest of you, please do carry on always moving ahead, while the errant wanderers do our best to catch up to the present before it slips through our fingers - or in the pithy words of late night host Craig Ferguson: "Tomorrow is just your future yesterday." Apart from alien life-forms on strange planets in far distant galaxies, and people who have been living under a rock for decades, everyone else in the universe can't help but be aware, whether they wanted to or not, that socialite Kim Kardashian recently had a baby, with a full-blown media frenzy surrounding the blessed event, as if there had never been such a blessed event in the entire annals of recorded history up to this point. There was no way to avoid the ubiquitous smiling faces of the beaming mother, and her famous boyfriend, the singer Kanye, on every TV set, newspaper, magazine, smart phone, billboard, and all over the Internet, so that a stranger to these parts would have no choice but to assume that they had accomplished something truly remarkable to be so newsworthy. Of course we wish the lucky couple every happiness, and the infant even more so, and would never begrudge them their moment in the spotlight, or take umbrage at the occasion's notoriety, wildly out of proportion to its importance. It was only much later that I found out they had decided to name the newborn "North," for whatever reason, and I am certainly not one to judge or quibble. We all have long since gotten used to peculiar celebrity baby names - from Apple to Scout, to Seven to Brooklyn, to Blue to Sailor, to Denim to Banjo, all the way to Egypt and Moxie Crime Fighter and back again - and as odd names go, North is not really that bad. However, a normal person couldn't help but notice that the father's name is Kanye West, thus making this poor little lass North West, which takes things in a whole different direction along the compass points of ridiculousness, and I don't need Rand McNally to show me the way to get there, believe me. The dinosaurs and I only wonder, can Cary Grant be far behind? And while we're on the subject of compass points, last weekend Bill and I took the opportunity to travel way up north and visit friends of ours and their brand spanking new pool, before the rest of the summer got completely away from us and it would be too late. These are the same friends around the Albany area that we usually visit for the holidays in the dead of winter, driving 200 miles straight into the teeth of some of the worst weather that our old nemesis Comrade Mischka can throw at us, leaving the comforts of home for all of the snow, sleet, slush, ice and frigid temperatures that the Capital region has to offer. When we heard that our friends were having a new pool carved out of their charming backyard, we made immediate plans to invite ourselves up there during the warm weather, to take full advantage of this new and welcome addition. So we set sail early on Saturday with happy hearts, leaving our cares far behind us, and enjoying the lush greenery along the way, compared to the usual bleak and frosty landscapes that greet our eyes in January. The traffic was a cornucopia of tourists like us, with RV's and trailers, hauling an endless variety of bicycles, kayaks, canoes, jet skis, ATV's, boats, horses, and even surfboards, bound and determined to squeeze out one last gasp of summer fun or know the reason why. We reached our destination just in time for lunch,and nobody had to ask us twice to join them at the diner, where the fried ravioli and cheese blintzes did not disappoint, I can assure you. After that, it was everybody into the pool, which is a refreshing treat on a hot day that cannot be over-exaggerated. If scientists ever find a way to bottle that, heck, I could keep that industry in business all by myself, by golly. Next we were off to check in at the nearby Quality Inn for the night, where we had never stayed before, so we wanted to get there while it was still light out. I didn't realize it, since we're never there in August, but once the horse racing season starts at Saratoga, you just about can't get a hotel room anywhere in the area for love or money, and so our usual lodgings at La Quinta were long since booked up solid, and we were left out of the running. The Quality Inn was nice enough, and very quiet, but it didn't measure up to La Quinta, especially since it had no indoor pool or hot tub, so staying there in the winter would not be an option for us. We ordered pizza for dinner, and thus revitalized, headed out to the fairways for a spirited round of miniature golf under the lights. This turned out to be more complicated than it sounded, as I whacked one shot so hard that it literally vanished off the course, and we never did find it again - although this was somewhat offset by the stranger's ball that we discovered in the rocks when we weren't even looking for it. (The balls are all different colors, which makes it a lot easier to tell if it's one of yours or not.) After tramping around and chasing little dimpled balls, there's nothing like soft ice cream to hit the spot, so that was our next stop and it was all we could have hoped for. With a long and busy day behind us, we were ready to turn in, and all of the carousing wedding guests in the hallways were not equal to the task of keeping us awake, try as they might. In the morning, the hotel provides a very nice breakfast buffet, but we had bigger fish to fry, as it were, and joined our friends at IHOP for pancakes and French toast instead. Of course, our claim to fame in the region is helping the local economy, so next we headed off to Goodwill to keep the wheels of commerce turning, and snapped up some bargains that were fun, practical, or just plain peculiar. By afternoon, it was hot enough that a dip in the new pool was just about mandatory, and lucky to have two such beautiful days to really enjoy some fresh water frolics with our friends. All too soon, it was time to hit the road, so we packed up and set our sights on the homeward leg of our journey, with its eagerly anticipated side trip to Denny's in Newburgh for dinner, always a highlight of our travels. We arrived home safe and sound, and found everything just as we had left it - so either our cats had been particularly well-behaved, or more likely, their diabolical plans had not enough time to come to fruition in our absence. They seemed mostly pleased at the return of Food Man and Crazy Woman, notably the feisty black kitten on our front porch, although a couple of them appeared to have forgotten who we were overnight, and were petrified at the sight of us. And that was without watching me at miniature golf, mind you, which even the dinosaurs would admit is enough to make grown men cry, and I ought to know, or my name isn't - South East

Here And Now

Hello World, We find ourselves sinking ever deeper and deeper into that disorienting time of year when all of the seasons seem to pile up on top of each other in a mad jumble that just about makes your head spin. Fans of America's Pastime are about to succumb to pennant fever, while football and even hockey are knocking on the door. The back-to-school sales are in full swing, which means it's time for the Christmas card catalogs to start arriving at work, which they did this week. The constant drone of locusts tells you it's certainly August, while Bill just spotted a store that was entirely decorated with pumpkins, and can the Pilgrims be far behind, I ask you that. You don't know which way to turn on television, where old shows are wrapping up and new shows are being unveiled, and the programming landscape of familiar series can't help but remind you now of the post-apocalyptic wasteland from some Japanese horror movie of days gone by. And when it comes to Japanese horror stories, the hapless Mets have certainly had their share, often with Godzilla-like consequences that leave their traumatized fans numb with shock. Never one to learn from their mistakes, the front office is at it again, reeling in media darling Dice-K to help bolster their depleted pitching staff as the season winds down. After signing a sensational $51 million contract with the Red Sox in 2007, his so-so record of 50-37 with an ERA of 4.52 and 609 strike outs was certainly not what Boston envisioned from their star acquisition, and they finally released him in 2012. Now that the erratic hot shot has landed in Queens, we can only hope that he hasn't brought any giant lizards with him - let's face it, our local newspaper doesn't have room for that story and also Alex Rodriguez at the same time, after all. Meanwhile, in the "timing is everything" department, 6 months ago, this would have meant nothing at all to us, but suddenly it's a big deal - yes, I'm referring to Black Cat Appreciation Day on August 17, when we get a chance to celebrate all things ebony in the wonderful world of felines. Bill happened across this fortuitous occasion in his travels, and we were glad to jump on board with the idea, in honor of our enormous Nubian princess, Inky, and also Truffle, who is mostly black with a bit of white underpinnings. But, as they say on late night TV: "That's not all!" Our neighbors have a large black cat that we sometimes see in our yard, and we've also been feeding a tiny black stray at our front door, so our cup runneth over with black cats on every side, and just in time, a special day comes along to give them their due. So for every Blackie, Midnight, Smoke, Inky, Salem, Licorice, Spooky, Onyx, Magic or Darth Vader out there, let your silky obsidian hair down, and party like it's black as the ace of spades, Zorro. We also have Bill to thank for pointing us in the direction of http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Writing/g.html where we turn for our laugh of the day: ============================================== Grammar Checkers. I have no problem with spelling checkers; while they sometimes miss typos, they rarely give advice that's downright wrong. Computerized grammar checkers, on the other hand, are a mess. They not only miss most of the serious problems, they actually give wretched advice, often telling you to fix something that's not broken. And of course they have no sense of grace, which means they can only apply rules pedantically with no sense of context. I've played with many of them, and have never seen one worth the CD-ROM it's printed on. A fun experiment is to take some great work of literature and feed it to a grammar checker, and then to see what mincemeat it makes of it. Here are some mindless tips on the first sentence of Milton's Paradise Lost: Consider revising. Very long sentences can be difficult to understand. Avoid contractions like “flow'd” in formal writing (consider “flow had”). Avoid the use of “Man” (try “he or she”). “One greater Man restore” has subject-verb agreement problems. “In the Beginning” should be “at first.” “Or if Sion” should be “also if Sion.” Milton's style is judged appropriate for a 98th-grade reading level. (Well, okay, that seems about right. But the rest is silly.) Maybe someday I'll be pleasantly surprised, but for now, rely on your own knowledge when you revise and proofread. See also Spelling Checkers and Microsoft Word. [Revised 5 April 2001.] =============================================== Well, talk about Paradise Lost, indeed! I don't know if Milton famously suffered the slings and arrows of detractors and critics during his lifetime, but at least he died well before he had to endure digital brickbats being thrown at him by computerized experts, springing from software that can't tell a hawk from a handsaw, as Shakespeare's melancholy Dane would say. Of course, if this was Shakespeare, the grammar checker would probably insist that it was Francis Bacon instead, I shouldn't wonder. And speaking of the poor overworked spell-checkers of the world, it's not going to help you in a situation like this miscue under a picture from the Living Here section of our local newspaper: ===================================== The Westchester Cosentino Center in Mount Kisco, which boats a 25,300 square foot warehouse and distribution space ===================================== Frankly, I doubt their warehouse, however estimable, "boats" anything at all, in fact, I would go so far as to dare it to use the phrase "which boats a" in any kind of a sentence at all, that could be considered grammatically correct anywhere in this universe. One can only assume the caption writer meant "boasts" rather than "boats," but ran aground on the rocky shoals of this Holiday For Spell Checkers - since "boats" is a perfectly good word, and even the right word in other contexts, and the spell-checker was never going to catch that one, Captain. We can only wonder what the persnickety grammar checker would have made of that, the mind reels. And while we're on the topic of caption writers, let the linguists and purists rejoice (and don't think the dinosaurs and I don't know who you are) because they were on top of their game in this tidbit from the TV listings Best Bets - ====================== Dwayne Johnson challenges the contestants to rappel down the tallest building in Central America on TNT's "The Hero" ====================== Unfortunately, the same can't be said for their colleagues writing the show synopsis for the very same episode - ======================= "The Hero" TNT Contestants are tasked with having to repel down the tallest building in Central America ======================= Once again, this is no fault of the poor over-burdened spell-checker, where the problem is using a perfectly good word in the wrong context. It continues to amaze me how the newspaper staff, with all the modern technology of the world at their fingertips, can continue to make such bald-faced blunders as spelling the same word or name two different ways, once in the caption and again in the body of the story, and often side-by-side, as if there isn't anybody there who actually reads the paper when it's finished. Of course, it's always possible that the newspaper workers don't actually subscribe to the paper themselves, or perhaps they take it home to wrap up coffee grounds and fish bones, for all I know. What we do with the paper at our house is use it in the bottom of the litter boxes, where the cats poop on it - and I guess we can all agree that this is exactly the kind of editorial comment that we can live with, Horace Greeley. But now it's time to kick back with a classic epic poem, tuck into some back-to-school pumpkin pie, and maybe catch up with some local baseball action on the tube. Say, who let Godzilla in here? Elle

One Fine Day

Hello World, Well, we've managed to make it to the half-way point of August, a month that is all full of days, and not a single thing in the world going on, from one end of the month to the other. Just more of the same old, same old, no matter where you look, and plenty of it - which is not to say that's a bad thing, because for most people, having too much summer would not be considered a disadvantage in any way. But now that the month is about half over already, let's face it, we're all going to have to step lively if we want to cram all of the seasonal treats that summer has to offer, into the ever-more dwindling time that's remaining to us. So get busy on that suntan-watermelon-hammock-lemonade-surfboard-ice cream-sand castles-corn on the cob-fireworks-picnic-flip flops-campfire, because the hard, cold reality of September is right around the corner, and will be here on our very doorstep before we know it, believe me. Speaking of doorsteps, Truffle has been enjoying his new friends that have been visiting him in the guest bathroom, and is gracious about sharing his toys with them in a catnip-fueled romp that turns the whole room topsy-turvy. It must be said that he would probably be happier if they wouldn't come in and eat his food or use his litter box, but Max and Rusty both outweigh this pipsqueak newcomer to a sizable degree, and Truffle is not one to stand up for his rights in the face of ponderous opposition. It may be different someday if he grows taller, but right now, he's still the low man on the totem pole, kemo sabe. Oddly enough, that reminds me of when we were driving out to Wildwood together in both cars, and with the expectation that the Aveo would be better at keeping up to speed, even fully loaded with camping supplies, compared to the Escort - although in actuality, I said to Bill that the new car would be a lot peppier if my legs were longer. Seat adjustments, anyone? Meanwhile at work, all of us lucky minions at the Employer of Last Resort had been treated to the following invitation in a broadcast email recently: ====================== You're invited to join the Chief of Robotic Surgery, Dr. Murray Fieldenstream, in the main lobby today between 11:00 AM and 1:00 PM for a Robot Demonstration. ***While enjoying the demo, enter the “name the robot” contest.*** ======================= Now, I can assure you that it's not all fun and games here at the ol' House O' Quacks, but we do have our moments. It wasn't long after all of this hullabaloo in the lobby that we all received a follow-up message, guaranteed to warm the cockles of anyone's heart, that is, as long as they're not a robot - ======================= Congratulations to the robot naming contest winner Ron Belasco Director of Security The Winning Name: SURGIO! ========================= Ya gotta love it! I'm not going to go all out on a limb and claim that this is the absolute latest and greatest medical device in the world, with all the newest bells and whistles that modern technology has to offer, but there's no denying that it's got one heck of a name to beat the band, and that has to count for something, by golly. Of course, it's no surprise that they're playing pre-season football on television already, but you may be surprised, if like me, you don't expect to find Monday Night Football in the Best Bets section of the local TV listings for Thursday, August 15, as I did this week. Frankly, I don't know why they go to the trouble to call it Monday Night Football to start with, if they're going to play the game on Thursday anyway, they may as well just call a spade a spade, and say that it's Thursday Night Football, right out of the gate. In baseball, they always say, "You can't tell the players without a scorecard," and I can see that the NFL's new motto is going to be: "You can't tell the games without a calendar," and that's not just a lot of Gatorade and goalposts, Vince Lombardi. Mind you, this goes right along with a circular that I spotted in yesterday's paper, from our friends at the venerable Macy's department store, with its giant screaming type that announced their ONE DAY SALE - which they assured me that I could take advantage of, at my convenience, on both Friday 8/16 and Saturday 8/17. Well, I don't mind saying that the dinosaurs and I can remember a time that a one-day sale didn't last for two days, or if it did, they wouldn't have bothered to call it a one-day sale in the first place. At this point, I can't help but feel that it's certainly a sad state of affairs when even such fundamental words as "Monday" and "one" have lost all their meaning. And speaking of words with no meaning, also in the TV listings Best Bets was the following movie review: ========================== "The Apparition" After strange events start to occur in their home, a young couple is plaggued with the presence of an evil spirit =========================== Inasmuch as "plaggued" is not even a word, at least in this solar system that I know of, one can only assume that they must have meant some actual other word altogether. The sad thing is, this same movie was also being shown on television in May, and also made the listing of Best Bets then too - and incredibly, the exact same typo was in that description as well. Of course, there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and it's all too easy to decry the sorry state of journalism nowadays, where anything goes, and editors are unheard of, and more's the pity, alas. But in this day and age, you'd think that at least you could count on the spell-checkers to catch such obvious errors as this, which is not using a similar but wrong word in the place of the right word, but instead substituted something that doesn't even qualify as a word, by any definition of the term. Now, we can't rule out the possibility that the spell-checker has been plaggued with an evil spirit, or perhaps, simply had the day off - and by that, I mean an actual day, not a Macy's day, which can apparently mean any random amount of time at all. Or as they say in the NFL, "If this is Thursday, it must be Monday." Elle

A Friend Indeed

Hello World, It's not uncommon to have our ups and downs in Vacation Land from year to year, and it's only to be expected that things will change, sometimes for the better, and other times - well, let's just say, not so much. I often feel that the weather on my vacation could have been improved in one way or another, at least while I'm out there with it, and the conditions are less than ideal. But you'd be surprised how often, after I come back home to the workaday world, and going about my ordinary business hither and thither as it takes me, I find myself saying the same thing over and over, "Boy, I'm glad I'm not on vacation this week!" Since I came back, the weather has been so unpredictable, and often downright despicable, so that camping in it would be unthinkable to even the most hide-bound traditionalists among us. (And the dinosaurs and I know who you are, believe me.) Not to single out this year in particular, it actually appears to be a common theme over the years, at least every other day or so, the elements are so unseasonable, or extreme, or outrageous, or record-breaking, that a person like myself, safely back from a week in the woods, can't help but watch and wonder. It frequently continues along that way in a haphazard manner, so that each week brings some fresh horror that I was grateful to have avoided while camping. In retrospect, I very often realize that I was lucky enough to have the only really good week of weather, sometimes for the entire summer, just when I needed it most on my vacation. Obviously, I owe a great debt to whoever snatches Comrade Mischka away from the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, and ties him up in a closet for that week, da? It may be starting to look like the fabled "dog days" of August around here, with oppressive humidity that is no joke, and back-to-school is still weeks away yet for young scholars everywhere. But in spite of all indications to the contrary, that's not your imagination, there really is pre-season football on television already, starting last week (do I hear the clamoring pigskin faithful saying, " ..... And not a moment too soon!") as impossible as that might seem. The crown jewel of crisp fall weekends and blustery cavernous stadiums, football seems wildly at odds with the summer staples of watermelon, air conditioners, flip-flops, lemonade, hammocks, and suntan lotion. This certainly is not your grandfather's football, by golly, where winning one for the Gipper would have required emergency ice packs, buckets of cold drinks, and break-away perforated jerseys in the sweltering heat. Turning football into a 3-season sport makes it even more of a test of endurance for players and fans alike - although admittedly, fans have the advantage of beer, of which copious amounts consumed during a game can render a spectator insensible to just about any conditions at the time. So let the tail-gating begin, and don't spare the Freezer Pops, my good man! In other sports news, I'm afraid our local newspaper will have no choice but to pack up and go out of business, if the troublesome situation with Alex Rodriguez, the Yankees' embattled third baseman, ever gets resolved, because that's been their front page story for weeks on end. They started to focus on it weeks before there was any real news to report, examining every aspect of the rumored details of the case, and pouncing on every conjecture or speculation, however absurd or hypothetical, like Derek Jeter snagging a ground ball. They moved into high gear when a decision was imminent, and have kept it up since the suspension was announced, following the appeal process with an intense scrutiny usually reserved for a candidate being considered for Supreme Court Justice. This one topic has basically commandeered the entire newspaper all this time, to the exclusion of any other sports activities or noteworthy events that may have been going on at the same time, such as actual baseball games, tennis, golf, or even that hot weather classic, beach touchdowns - I mean, pre-season football. I just love the sight of surfboards at the 50-yard-line, don't you? You'd never know it by the media coverage, but a number of other players besides A-Rod were suspended in MLB's investigation into performance enhancing drugs, including 2 members of the Mets, which you think would be impossible on a team with a woeful 49-60 record, that's 17 games out of first place already, and has a team batting average around .230, for pity's sake. Heck, if that's supposed to be performance enhancing drugs, I say the Mets deserve to get their money back from these crooks. To paraphrase the immortal words of Branch Rickey, "We could have done that without you, BioGenesis." Many long years ago, when the Invisible Cats were first in our kitchen under the sink, we had taken in another kitty we called Zanzibar, and put him in a separate room until he was more acclimated to the indoors. When he was in our backyard, he seemed friendly and peppy, with a shiny mackerel coat, bright eyes and a ready squeal of welcome. After he had been inside for a while, we noticed that he had become a shadow of his former self - thin and pale, with a dull coat, and a sad wariness that we hadn't seen before. He wasn't exactly invisible, but he wouldn't come near us, and we really started to worry about him. One day when I was sitting with him (ostensibly keeping him company, although he never did warm up to that idea) Max came in from another room, and being one of our biggest cats, I was concerned that he would frighten poor Zanzibar even more. On the contrary, Zanzibar came flying over to meet this exciting new acquaintance, and couldn't get enough of rubbing up against him like a long-lost relative, and purring madly the whole time. Max was incredibly patient with this pint-sized pest, whose need for attention knew no bounds, and he suffered the unwanted snuggling by the infatuated newcomer with good grace. I discovered that I could pat Max while he endured this canoodling, and surreptitiously reach over him to pat Zanzibar, while he was too distracted to flee. In this way over time, Zanzibar came to accept us after all, presumably on the theory that any friends of Max were okay by him too. This was a textbook example of the difference between "people cats," who crave human companionship, and others who would be described as a "cat's cat," who prefer the company of their own kind. Once we realized Zanzibar was one of the latter, we integrated him with the Invisibles, and suddenly he was in his glory - easily winning them over, with the exception of the prickly Captain Midnight, who was thoroughly immune to such blandishments. He and Puffin became fast friends, although it must be said that Zanzibar continued to follow Max around on a regular basis like a love-sick puppy, in spite of having many other cats to choose from. So after Truffle had been in our guest bathroom for 2 months, and still hiding behind the bathtub, it dawned on me that a little "cat therapy" might be just the thing. I opened the door and invited the trusty Max inside, offering some cat treats as an incentive, and he jumped right on board with this idea on the spot. Sure enough, Truffle started chirping in welcome, and trotted right out to make friends, and once again, Max was as good as gold with the new little stranger, and giving Truffle no reason to feel nervous or intimidated. A different time, I tried this with Rusty, which worked even better, since Rusty has been starved for affection since losing his beloved Flopsie, and Truffle seemed a perfect match in size and temperament. Ironically, it was Zanzibar who was too afraid to meet the new arrival across the bathroom threshold, even with Max's help, and Inky flatly refused to get near the place at gunpoint. In the "love-sick puppy" category, Truffle's heart seems set on Lucky Strike, as the two of them squeak at each other under the door - but once the door is opened, Lucky bolts down the stairs like a shot, leaving poor Truffle in the love-lorn lurch, as it were. In just a matter of days, the change in Truffle has been extraordinary, and he has almost completely stopped hiding, but stays out in plain sight, day or night, even when we go right into the bathroom ourselves with food or clean litter. He plays with just about anything as a toy, and loves to interact with the other cats when we let them in for what we call "company time." It's been truly heartening to be a witness to the transformation of a hurt and frightened feral beast, to the point where we've seen him blossom into a real cat right before our very eyes. It would not be over-stating the case to call it a miracle, and unlike the hapless Mets, I can assure you that we did it without the use of performance enhancing drugs, and I've got the batting average to prove it, Branch Rickey. Elle

Made In The Shade

Hello World, Happy August! Of course, everyone knows that the eighth month is not exactly known for its happiness quotient, and in fact, is more renowned for its sultry "dog days," that do nothing to enhance anyone's happiness, especially here in the sweltering urban jungle. Experts can tell you that the suicide rates skyrocket during the month, and the mean streets get even meaner, until people feel that they have no reason to keep on going, and life is not worth living. Well, I'm here to set the record straight, with help from our new friends at Hostess Brands LLC in Kansas City, who have resurrected Twinkies from the abyss, and given us all something to smile about that we can really sink our teeth into, and I ought to know. The company's slogan of "The Sweetest Comeback in the History of Ever" is emblazoned on their boxes, and splashed all over their store displays, so it would be virtually impossible to miss the significance of this historic occasion, no matter how hard you tried. Now, I can assure you that I defer to no one in my devotion to the tasty sponge cakes, so you've got to go a far piece and all the way around Robin Hood's proverbial barn to find anyone more delighted at their long-awaited reappearance. However, as wonderful as it is to have them back, it can't be denied that these are certainly not the Twinkies of yore that we have all come to know and love, but a middling imitation that unfortunately falls short of perfection. Compared to the original, this new version is stubby and dense, and somehow even more bland, if that could be possible. So while I think we can all agree that August can only be improved by the return of the prodigal Twinkies, of any description, it must be said that the iconic Twinkies of our youth continue to elude us, alas. And speaking of things eluding us, since coming home from the emergency clinic in May with a bandaged paw, Truffle had been hiding in a secluded corner of our guest bathroom, and we hadn't set eyes on him in lo, these many weeks since then. In fact, his powers of concealment were so acute that Bill was convinced that he was tunneling out of the place, like the prisoners in "The Great Escape," while deflecting suspicion by showing up for meals and roll call, the way they did in "Hogan's Heroes," right under the very noses of their oblivious captors. (Mind you, we once had a stray cat who actually broke a window and jumped to freedom from our attic, a feat of daring that continues to amaze us to this day, so we've pretty much seen it all, and it takes a lot to surprise us anymore, I dare say.) So a few weeks ago, when I saw a black cat in the driveway limping on 3 legs, and in spite of all logic to the contrary, it made me so totally spooked that I flew into the house and galloped up the stairs at a flat run, to make sure Truffle was still securely inside where we left him, and hadn't somehow gotten loose and hobbled into the backyard in a bold daylight escapade. Believe it or not, it turned out to be a completely different and unrelated black cat limping on 3 legs, and hard on the heels of Truffle doing the very same thing only recently in the very same spot, and which you would think would be so wildly coincidental that the odds against it would be astronomical. I suppose it's slightly less inconceivable than a gimpy alley-cat tunneling out of a second floor bathroom, but not by much. Meanwhile in the "What's in a Name" category, our crack research team came across a couple of interesting tidbits in their investigation into bike path ads - or perhaps we could just call them "bipads" for the sake of expediency. The first one to leap off the screen was the inaptly named Coyote Creek Bike Trail, which is certainly not the place I would want to be riding a bicycle, I'm thinking, and that would be putting it mildly. I can already offer some suggestions for other names to be avoided at all costs, such as the Irradiated Forest Bike Path, the Zombie Apocalypse Bike Route, or the Quagmire Quicksand Bike Trail, for example. Next up was some information on what was described as a "portable bicycle," and here you can call me crazy (don't you dare!) but I'm pretty sure the whole purpose of a bicycle is to be portable, because otherwise you may as well try to ride your refrigerator to work, or maybe your hot tub, if the portability aspect is a secondary consideration. You can bet that I wouldn't want to be riding my refrigerator through Coyote Creek, and that's not just the dishwasher talking, believe me. Alert readers may be wondering, and well may they wonder, if July has already come and gone, whatever became of the storied Round Hill Highland Games, now in their 90th historic year? Well, wonder no more, because it was certainly true that I changed my vacation week later in July, just so I wouldn't miss them again like last year, and all their attendant pageantry and merrymaking, great Scot. We found that the spacious Cranbury Park had undergone some renovations since the last time we were there, and were reminded that change is not always an improvement, in spite of well-meaning individuals and their good intentions. As always, we were looking forward to enjoying our favorite Celtic rock fusion band, Mac Talla M'or, which turned out to be only parts of them in a rather odd and abbreviated show - we found out later, because their lead singer and keyboardist, the heart and soul of the group, was away at the time and being married elsewhere, of all things. I mean, you'd think they could have picked another day for the happy event, or failing that, you might expect the family would have passed on the Games, to be at the wedding instead. Without that for competition, the highlight of the day easily became dinner at Denny's, which may not be culturally authentic for the occasion, but is always a treat for the bonnie lads and lassies - and the Loch Ness monster, it goes without saying. And while we're on the subject of unexpected outcomes, it brings us to my favorite story from camping which somehow got left out of my previous note, regardless of how long-winded and circumlocutory that may have turned out, so that it would have seemed to lack for nothing, including the kitchen sink. (Okay, I can already hear elaborate snoring noises coming from the Peanut Gallery, and I'll thank the dinosaurs to keep their unsolicited editorial comments to themselves, thank you so very much not.) One happy day, Bill and I arrived at the beach, set down all of our seaside accessories that we were carrying, and prepared to make ourselves comfortable for some rest and relaxation at the shore. What happened instead was that Bill opened one of the sand chairs, and the neatly coiled sun shade exploded out of the chair like a runaway bottle rocket, and went spinning erratically across the sand, in the manner of a drunken sailor possessed by a poltergeist. If anyone had been in front of us, it would have slammed right into them, although the element of surprise would have been its only real weapon, since it's far too lightweight to do any real damage. Fortunately, we were set apart at the time, and thus posed no danger to our beach companions, and had to content ourselves with the entertainment value of the incident, which I can assure you, was considerable, at least for the easily amused among us - of which I consider myself one, and all the derisive howls of laughter from the dinosaurs will make not the slightest bit of difference in any way. I really can't be bothered with their tomfoolery now, because I'm planning to take my piano out for a spin, and I hear that Coyote Creek is very nice this time of year. Elle