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