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 All of the most modern technology in the world is outdated as soon as it's released, while Stonehenge is still keeping the right time down through the countless centuries for as long as it's been standing.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