Rain Delay

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves at the very last weekend in September already, believe it or not, and Tuesday will be the first day of October, as impossible as that might seem. Speaking of impossible, it appears that we're going to have to count on the Rangers at this point, because the rest of the local sports teams have just been heartbreaking to watch. Of course, the hapless Mets have been beyond salvaging all year, and could easily wind up losing 90 games out of 162. Even worse, the flagship of New York dynasties, the perennially front-running Yankees were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, which is something that never happens, and their stunned fans are cast adrift and stumbling around in a daze, like some poor old punch-drunk prizefighter. (Which reminds me of a classic quote by heavyweight champion Muhammed Ali: "Earnie Shavers hit me so hard, he shook my kinfolk back in Africa!") Meanwhile across the river, even Eli Manning's detractors would never have expected, after the Giants lost their first 2 games, that they would not only lose the next one, but get shut-out by the middling Carolina Panthers, for their worst start of a season in decades. At this rate, they're managing to make the maddeningly erratic Jets at 2-1 look like the world-beaters that they clearly are not, simply by comparison. So there certainly has been no joy in Mudville, at least three times over, and there's little enough to look forward to in October, heaven knows, without all of the teams in the tri-state area stinking up the joint. Where is Earnie Shavers when you need him? Last weekend, we had an interesting adventure, and lived to tell the tale, so that was the best part. For years upon years, our friends around the Albany area had been begging us to go with them to The Big E Fair that they have in Springfield, Massachusetts every September, which they raved and raved about, and happily joined in with the throngs making their annual pilgrimage there. In fact, The Big E is eager to tell you that it represents 6 northeastern states (Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Vermont) covers a full 17 days of pure joy, and attracts over a million visitors from all over the world. For our part, we could never work up the enthusiasm for the idea though, because we thought it was just too far away, since it takes us 3 hours to reach them, and the fair is another hour and a half from there. But then we went to visit my cousin earlier this year in Pittsfield, which is just outside of Springfield, and found that by going direct from home, it didn't take that long at all, in fact, it was a very manageable ride at about 2 hours or so. When the fair rolled around again, as it does every September, we agreed to meet our friends there, and see what all the excitement was about. We were lucky to get two rooms at the nearby La Quinta hotel, only about a mile and a half from the fairgrounds, and we had a plan to meet there first, on the theory that it would be easier to go to the fair together and only have to park one car. As plans go, we thought this one was top shelf, which just goes to show you how little we know about shelves sometimes, and can't help but make a person wonder, where is Earnie Shavers when we need him? The trip there was mostly uneventful, no thanks to the intermittent road construction that caused some traffic delays where we wouldn't have expected them. The weather forecast called for a beautiful sunny day in the region, but it was already sprinkling when we left home, and it rained on and off all the livelong day, thanks not. But we were determined to make the best of it, and got to the hotel in one shot and early besides, with the only disadvantage that they were already all booked up from the day before, and couldn't let us check in early even if they wanted to. When our friends showed up, we headed off to The Fifties Diner, a contemporary but very retro establishment, where we enjoyed our lunch to the sound of oldies on a genuine jukebox. From there, we hopped into the car and followed the simplest of directions to our destination, which was just across the bridge on the other side of the river, practically in plain sight and couldn't be quicker. Not so fast! Although we expected crowds, nothing could have prepared us for what happened next. For that simple mile and a half from the hotel to the fairgrounds, we were stopped in traffic for over 2 hours, occasionally creeping along 5 or 10 feet forward, but mostly at a standstill, so that any pedestrian, or even someone in a wheelchair, would have long since left us in the dust. In the interests of full disclosure, I have to admit that dismal experience had an extremely malignant effect on our subsequent impressions of the fair, and we did not greet it with wide smiles and open arms that we might have otherwise. Once inside, even our friends said that they had never seen the place so mobbed, and it was basically impossible to see anything with the surging sea of humanity thronging on every side like floodwaters from a dam burst. We plunged right in, getting swept along with the seething tide, going where everyone else was going, stopping when they stopped, turning when they turned, and catching glimpses of whatever we could along the way. We eventually learned to detach ourselves from the thundering herd when we all came out of a building, or reached an intersection, and bravely soldiered on, using their brochure's (hopelessly insufficient) map to guide us to the attractions that we most wanted to see. It was an uphill battle all the way, because in spite of the rain, and the crowds, and the traffic, they just never stopped coming all day long, and just as many people were still coming in when we left, as when we first got there. It was much later in the day when we finally found a spot that was relatively quiet and unpopulated, and if we had only known about it sooner, we probably would have just started there and stayed right in that one area the whole time, I shouldn't wonder. Like any fair, The Big E has some rides and midway amusements, like games of chance and exotic oddities sure to amuse, amaze, or bewilder. They also feature several venues for performances, with the likes of the Beach Boys, Tommy James & The Shondells, Darlene Love, Don Felder, the Ides of March, Kix Brooks, Elvis impersonators, and much more on any given day. Of course, there's no lack of fair food on every side, including fried dough, corn on the cob on a stick, cotton candy, blooming onions, funnel cake, fried Twinkies, soft ice cream, popcorn and all the chocolate-covered bananas anyone could hope for. They have a vast array of agricultural exhibits, including horse shows, sheep herding, pig races and award-winning livestock of all kinds. There's parades and car shows, safety demonstrations and marching bands, USO shows and Clydesdales, craft beers and even a village restoration. Unlike most fairs, they not only have their very own circus, but also a fun-size circus museum, filled with meticulous model layouts and circus-themed memorabilia of all sorts. Each of the 6 states is represented with its own exhibition hall, modeled after their original capitol buildings, and featuring local products, crafts and historical artifacts. There are hundreds of vendors, selling everything from jewelry to hot tubs, kitchen gadgets to carpets, key rings to lawn tractors, flag poles to fine art, cosmetics to garden tools, ergonomic chairs to organic pet supplies, and back again. Many booths display an eclectic mix of hand-made and unique items - like soap, candles, fudge, tote bags, sweaters, clocks, baby clothes, wind chimes, and even tie-dye T-shirts - to keep things interesting. That is, it would be interesting if you could actually see any of it, rather than being swept past it in the incessant roiling maelstrom of mankind, all of which made it impossible for us to do more than just skim the surface of what they (must laughingly) describe as "175 acres of bliss." After a few hours, we had to call it quits, and fight our way back to civilization, where the concept of "personal space" was embraced as a decadent luxury previously under-appreciated by all of us. It took us much less time to get back to the hotel than vice versa, which was a relief, and even better was changing out of our wet clothes and soggy shoes. We were obviously way too pooped to go out for dinner, so we ordered pizza delivered, and ate in the room. While we were waiting, we broke out a game of Bananagrams, and if anyone out there understands the instructions to this confusing Scrabble-like pastime, I'd be grateful if you could please explain them to me, because we had no luck with it on our own. It was no rest for the weary, because the pool closed early and we didn't want to miss out, but we were disappointed that it was crowded and noisy, and there was no hot tub to relax in after a long and trying day. Things looked considerably better after a good night's sleep, and even more so after the hotel's breakfast buffet, which featured pre-made mini cheese omelets in chafing dishes, rather than the usual scrambled eggs, and which was an interesting innovation, although not to every taste. We had plenty of time to pack and decide on our next excursion before checking out, so we didn't just wander aimlessly around Springfield, getting into mischief out of sheer boredom. On the contrary, we discovered the Quaboag Antiques Center in a capacious and over-stuffed edifice to be fascinating and wide-ranging in all of its chock-a-block profusion of everything vintage, and a peacefully charming diversion after the tumultuous ordeal of The Big E. We stopped for lunch at the nearby Apollo Restaurant, which was basically a pizzeria with some other dishes, and snapped up some of their signature baklava as long as we were there. This was handily located right next to Goodwill, where we found there were plenty of bargains to be had, and didn't have to fight through stampedes of people to get them. In fact, even the local Wal*Mart was refreshingly uncrowded for a Sunday afternoon, although it must be said that it was a glorious day, and people were likely taking advantage of the great outdoors instead. Next stop was Denny's in West Haven, which we had found originally on our way back from Foxwoods, where you exit Highway 91 and it dumps you - PLOP! - right into their parking lot, and thanks ever so. There was less traffic on the way home than going up, and all in all, everything went better on Sunday than it did on Saturday, which was the opposite of what we would have expected. Which actually reminds me of another classic quote from boxer Tex Cobb: "Earnie Shavers could punch you in the neck and break your ankle." Elle

Hey, Look Me Over

Hello World, I will not begin this note in the same manner as a recent follow-up email from a coworker, which announced, "Hello and hell again" - and which I'm pretty sure is not the friendly greeting that they intended it to be, but the unwelcome introduction of fire and brimstone was entirely inadvertent on their part, no doubt. Sunday the 22nd arrives bearing the Autumnal equinox on its shoulders, when sunrise and sunset are exactly 12 hours apart, and the universe is in balance. That is, at least as far as the Druids are concerned, and that's good enough for me, by golly. All of the most modern technology in the world is outdated as soon as it's released, while Stonehenge is still keeping the right time down through the countless centuries for as long as it's been standing. Take that, Bill Gates. For the Boys of Summer, the last game of the regular season will be on Sunday the 29th, and the playoffs begin, quick like a bunny, before you can say "Jackie Robinson" right after that. By last week, pretty much everything had been decided except for the wild card races, and lucky fans in those playoff-bound cities had much to look forward to. Meanwhile for the gridiron gang, after the first two weeks of the fledgling season, already some teams, who shall remain nameless, but look suspiciously like the Giants, have opened their season with an uncharacteristically woeful 0-2 start, of all things. This is certainly not the slam-bang, full-throttle, shot-out-of-a-cannon beginning their legions of horrified fans would have preferred, and the disappointed season ticket holders crying in their beer will soon form dangerous flood waters in the swamps of East Rutherford and surroundings. Heck, even the hapless Jets (for whom the pundits and sportswriters have long since worn out their encyclopedias and thesauruses dredging up new and different ways to describe their colossal ineptitude on and off the field) are at least at 1-1 after two games, which is a level of mediocrity that even their staunchest supporters didn't dare hope for. Of course, there's still plenty of football left, before the Super Bowl rolls around in February, but at this rate, it doesn't bode well for a Jets-Giants match-up on their home turf at MetLife Stadium out in the snow. Talk about Big Blue, Jack Frost! And speaking of all things frosty, looking ahead the first hockey games will be played on October 3, leaving last year's lockout behind us, and getting off to a fresh start this season, with a new realignment to make it even more interesting. At home, the Rangers are sporting some different players and a brand new coach, giving their long-suffering fans reason to hope for big things at the World's Most Famous Arena. It remains to be seen if all of these changes are friend or foe, or if the supposedly new and improved Broadway Blueshirts find even more unexpected ways to under-achieve along The Great White Way. Zamboni follies, anyone? Not wanting to press our luck on Friday the 13th, with any venerable superstitions or time-worn bad omens, we waited until Saturday the 14th to take in the tiny black kitten that had been making himself at home in our yard for the past several months. He's so little and solid black, we've been calling him Charcoal, although if he keeps eating the way that he does, we'll soon be calling him Coal Barge instead. I offered him some Fancy Feast on a plate inside the back door, and he happily trotted right into the kitchen and never looked back. I said to Bill that this high-spirited little chap had no idea what good timing this turned out to be - as small as he is, he could only have been born earlier in the year, and as a result, he's never had any experience with winter in these parts, or have any way to know what's in store out there in just a matter of months. He probably would not have thought much of the idea, I can tell you that. He's settled into the library and seems content enough, although he tends to scream when he thinks it's food time, making a tremendous racket, way out of proportion to his diminutive size. He seems to be warming up to us slowly but surely, not hiding behind the furniture for weeks on end like Truffle before him, so we're hopeful that this transition might go just a bit smoother all around. Unfortunately displaced in the process was Her Very Royal Highness, Princess Inky, her very own majestic self, who had considered the library her very own royal residence since she arrived in June, and now found herself unceremoniously tossed out in the wide open with the rest of the nobodies. Actually, the library had been open all along, and any old anybody could have just wandered in and out of there at will, any time of the day or night, as the mood might strike them - that is, if they didn't mind being pummeled by a massive black adversary twice their size, and outweighing them by more than half again, prepared to defend her turf against the effrontery of these mere mortals invading the royal premises. Years from now, she might forgive Charcoal for this outrage, which after all was not his fault, but frankly, he's going to have an uphill battle of it, I don't mind saying. Many months ago, in fact it was July of last year, I had stumbled across one of the most over-the-top, ridiculous fads I had ever seen in a month of Sundays, probably one of those outrageous pop culture tidbits that they feature on the AOL Welcome screen, and which Bill and I always file under the category of "This Is Why The Terrorists Hate Us." Believe it or not, it was a picture and story about CarLashes [ www.carlashes.com ] the company that sells giant plastic false eyelashes that you can attach over the headlights of your car, as well as crystal-studded eyeliner for you to stick on in a variety of jeweled colors, to give your car that "come hither look" which previously had been sorely lacking, I shouldn't wonder. They show sporty little cars looking provocative and oozing sex appeal, along with scantily clad models (here I mean girls, not other cars) and not leaving much to the imagination, I can assure you. Frankly, it would make me wonder about the moral rectitude of these vehicles, and I certainly wouldn't want to leave one alone on the streets, where it could get into all sorts of mischief in its wanton getup. In this scenario, "Looking For Mr. Goodwrench" would be the cautionary tale, although I fear that it might be a case of "too little, too late" for these chrome-plated hussies. And now, as if that wasn't bad enough, who comes along but our friends at Bits and Pieces (and please do feel free to go ahead and visit their web site at www.bitsandpieces.com and see for yourself) throwing down the gauntlet from the other side of the gender divide, and giving us, yes - The Giant Mustache Magnet for your car's hood. They assure me that it can "Give your car a touch of class" and is "The perfect gift for cars that sometimes need a quick pick-me-up." Honestly, between the car bra, and bumper bottoms, and now fake eyelashes, make-up and mustaches, it's getting to the point where cars are wearing more than their owners, and it won't be long before you'll need a whole wardrobe of accessories for it, just to take it out for a drive. This is turning into the adult version of Barbie dolls, with their endless array of clothes, stable of assorted friends, dream house, menagerie of pets, gadgets and appliances, plus costumes and paraphernalia for every country, culture and profession on the planet. So once again unto the breach, dear friends, if you are of the opinion that a nude ride is a rude ride, these are glory days indeed, and you can put the pedal to the metal in high-octane style. So get out there and spare no expense to turn your Barbie - I mean, your car - into the most over-dressed glamour-puss on the block, and be the envy of your neighborhood. Tell them Mr. Goodwrench sent you. Elle

Hot Potato

Hello World, Beware of Friday the 13th! Of course, we've all long since realized that any month that starts on a Sunday, as September did, will have a Friday the 13th in the second week, so we can't legitimately complain that this one snuck up on us in any way. Every year has at least one of them, and some years have as many as three. This year has two, although it waited until now for the first one to come along, and the second will be in December, so be on the lookout for that. Triskaidekaphobics will be glad about next year, because 2014 has only one for the entire year, which is about the best that anyone can hope for. Nervous sorts might want to avoid mirrors, ladders, black cats, or other omens of ill fortune - and the hometown faithful would be well advised to steer clear of the hapless Mets and hard-knock Jets, in case any of their abundant bad luck is contagious. (Oh, hit that easy target!) If you're not the type to be bothered by superstitions about ominous days or menacing numbers, please feel free to join with the dinosaurs and myself, and party like it's Saturday the 14th. And if the calendar says it's September, of course, we all know what that means. Yes, it's time for Oktoberfest in the local area, and not a moment to waste, nein danka. An ordinary person might think that with occasions, like Cinco de Mayo or Oktoberfest, which are literally named after particular times of the year, people would hold off their festivities until those dates have actually arrived, but we've all seen way too much of movable feasts over time, to expect anything to actually stay put where it's supposed to be. So we may as well all get out there and fest like it's really Oktober, which it clearly is not, and cheerfully embrace the radical notion that there is no wrong way to celebrate, in spite of what the Holiday Police might want you to believe. Go ahead and break out the lederhosen, take a German shepherd for a walk, hoist a stein or two, go cuckoo over Black Forest Cake, and above all, don't spare the bratwurst, mein herr. Speaking of time being out of joint, as Shakespeare so cogently observed, this is when we have the confluence of sports seasons overlapping, with baseball starting to wind down just as football is beginning to get underway, and die-hard fans can get bad news about the four local teams all on the same day, thanks not. Obviously, the Mets are bad news all by themselves, and don't need anything in particular to be singled out, but across town the pinstripe loyalists were bereft at the idea of losing their beloved captain, Derek Jeter, for the rest of the season, rather than righting the ship from its wobbly course and sailing on to World Series glory as expected. Even worse news on the gridiron front, where the Jets star-crossed quarterback, Mark Sanchez, with only 2 games under his belt, has been sidelined with season-ending shoulder surgery, and no chance to prove that the disappointment of last year was nothing more than a dismal aberration. And while we're on the topic of aberrations, that was probably what they were trying to describe in a recent story from the Sports section: ================= Yanks blow lead, allow 7 late runs Andy Pettitte did not argue. He did not point figures or thump his chest. ================= It's always good to know, when the chips are down, that the elder statesman of the Bombers rotation is not one to go around pointing figures, whatever that means. We certainly can't blame the spell-checker for that one, even if it's currently enjoying the early conviviality of Oktoberfest, imbibing pints of frosty lager with the frauleins, while singing drinking songs to the strains of an oompah band under a tent. We can't even cast aspersions on Andy Pettitte, since he didn't say it, and before we start throwing homburgs at poor Mark Sanchez, let's remember that he's going to be drinking his schnapps left-handed from now on. Meanwhile in what seems to be our never-ending quest to find a pleasant haven to bring our weary fingers and toes, Bill and I tried yet another new salon recently, hoping for the best, or at least, not the worst. I'm happy to report that I managed to get in and out of this place without bleeding, unlike our previous experiment, where it took over 2 weeks to heal, after the manicurist cut right through my skin in 3 different places with cuticle nippers, thanks oh so very much not. I found the treatment a little scaled-down from the usual regimen, but at least these sons and daughters of Chairman Mao didn't pound on us as the staff so often does in these joints nowadays. Not resting on our laurels, and throwing caution to the wind, we next stepped a few doors down, and took a chance on The Body Works, where Bill signed up for a back massage, while I opted for a foot rub. It was certainly nice enough, and I had no complaints, but it was noticeably short on amenities, and would make no one forget the sumptuous pampering of The G Spa, which remains the gold standard of indulgence that we discovered at Foxwoods. In fact, if it wasn't for the stupid laws against kidnapping in this country ..... well, I'm sure I can't be the only person in the world who's contemplated this idea, and the heck with the FBI. Thus refreshed, rejuvenated and revitalized, we capped off the evening by having dinner at the Mexican Corner restaurant, a tiny morsel in the bustling downtown district, which is no stranger to ethnic eateries of all descriptions and nationalities, by jingo. In the interests of accuracy, it would be safe to say that this cubbyhole could only be considered to have as much as 20 seats, if half of the patrons agreed to sit in someone's lap. It's always busy, in spite of the fact that they don't serve alcohol, which is just as well, because if a fight broke out, you'd have to go outside to throw a punch. We found their quesadillas and burritos can't be beat, and their fruit smoothies are sublime. As a side dish, I decided to try the papas fritas, or French fries, which I thought added a delightfully international flavor to the meal, perhaps not a veritable United Nations, but about the best I could do without bringing my own Danish pastry, Swiss cheese, Belgian waffles, English muffins, Turkish taffy, Irish soda bread, Hungarian goulash, Bermuda onions, Russian dressing, Indian relish and Black Forest cake. The papas fritas were delicious, and reminded me of this story that I had once seen long ago, during one of the Papal visits abroad: ========================== An American T-shirt maker in Miami printed shirts for the Spanish market which promoted the Pope’s visit. Instead of “I saw the Pope” (El Papa), the shirts read “I saw the potato.” (la papa). =========================== At the time, I thought it was hilarious, and a classic example of mis-translations run amok, that come back to haunt the unwary and their half-baked (potato) schemes. Of course, it turns out that our friends at www.snopes.com, the urban legend debunking watchdog, say it isn't true, but I still want to believe. After all, if it can be Oktoberfest in September, and French fries in a Mexican restaurant, then even the Holiday Police would have to admit that anything goes, so who am I to point figures, I ask you that. Or in the immortal words of James Brown, "El Papa's got a brand new bag" - at least, I hear that's where he keeps his Pringles. Elle

Small Talk

Hello World, Happy September! I hope that your Labor Day weekend was long and relaxing, so you could rest from your labors in the spirit that the holiday was intended, and God bless Samuel L. Gompers. Of course, it is axiomatic that there is no rest for the weary, and if it was up to the merchants, the long weekend would be nothing but a 3-day shopping spree, and no rest periods permitted until every last hard-earned dollar had been wrung from the steely grasp of the brow-beaten working stiffs, leaving behind empty gaping shelves and echoing showrooms picked clean. I doubt the late and lamented Samuel L. Gompers would approve, but it would certainly make the President's economic advisers positively euphoric, proving once again, in spite of what the Holiday Police might want us to believe, that there is no wrong way to celebrate special occasions. Bill and I were both off from our jobs on Monday (HOORAY!!!) but The Flag Brigade was hard at work, running up the colors upstairs and downstairs, gleaming brightly in the morning sun, like the rockets' red glare of lore and legend, great Scott. Unfortunately, the weather became changeable later in the day, and even sprinkling a little, and there was no alternative but to bring the flags back in again, where they would be safe and dry for another illustrious day. And that's not just Betsy Ross whistling Dixie, believe me. If this is September, it must be time for pennant fever, with heart-pounding see-saw races going right down to the wire, and every game is a must-win battle of wills where only the strong survive. Not so fast! With a mere handful of games left in the regular season, what should be pennant races, for the most part are pennant sleep-walks instead, without a hint of surprise or excitement about them. In 4 of the 6 divisions, the first-place team is ahead by at least 6 games, or as many as 14 games on their nearest rival, and woebegone clubs on the bottom of the standings have long since been mathematically eliminated from contention. It's only in the AL West and NL Central that the top two teams are within a single game of each other, and still battling it out for supremacy at the top of their division, when the final out is recorded that signals the end of the line. For everybody else, it's "wait until next year!" and a long winter ahead to plan, reorganize, commiserate, make trades, spend money, have surgery, renegotiate, get in shape, or get out of town. Mudville, that is. On the local scene, alert readers may recall that although we gave up the Escort and paid for the Aveo in early May, it took over 6 weeks of driving a precarious loaner to finally get the car from the dealer, and 4 months later, we still don't have the registration for it. So when they said they wanted the car back temporarily to straighten out some mix-up with the paperwork, and would give us a loaner in the meantime, we figured that would be the last we would ever see of it, and just give it up as a lost cause. So one night they picked up the Aveo and dropped off a shiny white Nissan Versa, which I took to work and back without incident, although it had that same ominous clunking sound and jittery handling of the previous loaner I had gotten from them. Incredibly, they returned the Aveo in a couple of days, after having it cleaned and washed and detailed - which was the incentive that had turned the tide for me, because the car was all full of dirt and twigs from my camping trip, and really needed some sprucing up. It came back looking better than ever, although whatever they used on the upholstery made it smell like a French bordello full of lighter fluid, so I've been driving around with the windows wide open, but I can tell you that if anybody strikes a match, all bets are off. The smell was immediate and impossible to miss, but it took a while to notice that it's also slippery all over, no matter what you touch on the outside, from the top to bottom and front to back, even the windows and door handles. Last week at work, I put my backpack on the hood, as I sometimes do, and it slid right off onto the ground before I could even reach out a hand to stop it. I don't mind saying that I can take a joke as well as the next fellow, but frankly, those French prostitutes laughing it up in the backseat were just too much to bear, zut alors. It was during the time that the cars were being swapped back, that Bill had my car (which I am calling Captain Scarlett in honor of its candy-apple hue) and accidentally set the alarm off, which is apparently a lot easier to do than you would expect for a car that is still safely in the secure hands of its owners, and not being hijacked by juvenile delinquents on a joy ride. Bill did exactly the same thing I did in reverse, when it happened to me on my vacation, and that is that he called me this time, since I previously had this same experience, and he already discovered that the owners manual is no help, thanks not. I recognized the persistent honking of the alarm over the phone, and heard a familiar litany of all the things he had tried, in order to make it stop, all to no avail - and which was in no way news to me, since I had already "been there, done that" as the saying goes. Fortunately, I was able to cast my mind back to that fateful day in July at the campsite, and reconstruct the steps that I took that finally succeeded in resetting the alarm system back to where it was supposed to be in the first place. Bill turned the car over to me later, holding the offending keys away from himself as if with a pair of tongs, and I can't say that I blame him one bit. On the entertainment front, last week we finally got around to watching the DVD of "Captain America" in 3-D, which was interesting on many levels, especially as it tied in with later Marvel Studio features, such as "The Avengers." Unlike contemporary super heroes, the roots of Captain America go back to the World War II era, so that part of story is told in period costumes, intertwining actual historical facts with fictional characters, improvised events, and dramatic fantasies. The narrative pulls you right along and never lags, and it's a bumpy ride with more than enough explosions, crashes, storm troopers, dogfights, and ray guns to satisfy even the most hardcore adrenaline junkies out there. To keep the proceedings from degenerating into cartoonish insignificance, there's the formidable Tommy Lee Jones on hand in a take-no-prisoners performance that demands to be taken seriously. The special effects are all that could be hoped for, although at its heart, this is a tale about real people, and not some supernatural, futuristic fairyland full of aliens and magic. One of the most interesting special effects is the use of computer technology to make hunky Chris Evans look smaller than he actually is, in the opening segments of the film, so that his later transformation to the full-blown super-human upholder of justice has even more impact. In fact, one of my favorite moments is when he teams up with his childhood pal behind enemy lines, and exclaims happily: "I thought you were dead!" To which his somewhat bewildered chum replies, "I thought you were shorter." Of course, nowadays Marvel comics are just a license to print money, and we can look forward to movie sequels of "Thor," "The Avengers," and yes, even "Captain America" later this year, and can "The Incredible Hulk" be far behind? I'd say it's sure-fire, but since I'm driving around in a French bordello full of lighter fluid, fire is about the last thing I want, and the French prostitutes doing the Can-Can in the backseat even less, so please don't light those Crepes Suzettes! Elle