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