Crying All The Way To The Bank

Hello World, It seems like you just look up, and the month is gone already, and the new year is scarcely the dewy-faced fledgling that we welcomed in scant weeks ago. We find ourselves already perched on the very brink of the last weekend in January, with February champing at the bit after next Friday, and the inaugural month of 2014 will be nothing more than a memory. Of course, with not one but two visitations by the dreaded Polar Vortex to our region during the month, I can't say that it will be exactly a pleasant memory that people will have after it's gone, but the one thing you can say about the weather - if we've learned nothing else from Comrade Mischka and the Kremlin's infernal weather machine - it can always be worse, and often is just that. While we're on the topic of the weather, I'm sure everyone is looking forward (NOT) to the first cold weather Super Bowl of the modern era, to be played next Sunday at MetLife Stadium in New Jersey - rain, shine, snow, sleet or Polar Vortex notwithstanding - which was the misguided inspiration of the bird-brained NFL bigwigs, although in fairness to our fine feathered friends, even the birds know enough to fly south for the winter. Since 1969, the Big Game has been situated at a neutral warm weather city or domed stadium, in deference to the players and especially the tens of thousands of fans, so February in the wild and woolly swamps of East Rutherford is certainly going to come as a cold shock to everyone, and about as welcome as an avalanche, I shouldn't wonder. Also setting this game apart, Denver's Peyton Manning represents the first quarterback ever to make it to the Super Bowl with two different teams - which is a statistic you would think would be impossible after more than 4 decades of these contests, and the countless quarterbacks (Tim Tebow, Donovan McNabb, Joe Montana, Fran Tarkenton, Michael Vick, Brett Favre, Steve Young) who have played for more than one team in their career. And speaking of being on the same team, I was at the bank recently trying to open a new account, which a normal person might expect them to greet with some enthusiasm, especially in this economic climate, if not downright euphoria. Not so fast! Apparently, customers are the last thing they want interfering with their more important pursuits, and they have implemented a multi-phase approach to keep them at bay. First there is a greeter, whose only job appears to be to discourage customers at the door, with a surly attitude that must turn them away in droves, and who is more than willing to become belligerent if customers continue in their efforts to gain access to the inner sanctum and services therein. The more persistent customers have to be thwarted with stronger measures, and they have no lack of them at their disposal - refuse to accept proper documentation, toss meaningless roadblocks in the way, invoke specious rules and regulations, demand ever more arcane requirements out of the blue - until even the most obstinate account holder has no choice but to throw their hands up in despair and give it up as a lost cause. And mind you, this is for the purpose of giving the bank money, which you think they would welcome with open arms, I mean, heaven forbid you were trying to get money out of them instead, they'd probably call out the National Guard. I considered myself lucky to get out of there in one piece without being arrested and winding up on the front page of the newspaper. Also in the local news, that reminds me of a recent newspaper story where the writer was recalling some significant event in his life, and searching for some poignant turn of phrase, came up with this odd choice: "I'll never forget that faithful day ..... " Honestly, sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or cry, and weeping and gnashing of teeth might not be out of the question either. But seriously, I never do understand why people try to make use of colloquialisms (baited breath, straight laced, a real trooper, another thing coming, peak your interest, nerve racking, wet the appetite, brass tax, a flare for, slight of hand, roll model, hail and hearty, to a fair thee well) when they clearly have no familiarity with the idiom, and then don't even bother to look it up and make sure that they're using it properly. (Although admittedly one befuddled scribbler, clutching vainly at the term "lackadaisical" and coming up instead with the serendipitous creation "lax of daisy," remains one of my all-time favorite typos since Gutenberg's inspired invention of movable type over 550 years ago.) Of course, before that people had no choice but to go ahead and make all of their own mistakes by hand, so it's a lucky thing that technology came along to save the day, and now we can all make so many more mistakes than ever before, and all at the blazing speeds that could never be imagined by our low-tech predecessors. This is what they call progress, and personally, I'm all for it, and I'm not just saying that as just some sort of fare whether friend, believe me. Just don't ask me to go to the bank. Elle

Dutch Treat

Hello World, Happy MLK weekend! For many businesses - such as banks, federal offices or schools - this represents a day off, as a welcome part of a long holiday weekend, for people to reflect on equality and civic responsibility. On the other hand, and for many more other places, the good doctor has joined the aggrieved Christopher Columbus in the "What have you done for us lately" fraternity of historical curiosities who have since fallen by the wayside through no fault of their own. A person could be forgiven for feeling that it's a sad state of affairs in this country when a groundhog in Pennsylvania is celebrated like some sort of national hero, while genuine visionaries with legitimate accomplishments under their collective belts are tossed aside without a second thought. A word of advice to future generations - forget abut discovering or inventing anything, and just be born a marmot instead. Speaking of celebrated luminaries of the past, I recently stumbled across this fascinating tidbit in my online forays - "Robert Benchley: A Profile in Humor" (and I invite you to go right ahead and feel free to visit the web site at www.davidpietrusza.com and see for yourself) which starts out great guns with this opening salvo: ============================================= The publication of Peter Benchley's wildly successful novel Jaws renewed interest once again in the career of his famed grandfather, the author, actor, columnist, critic, and all-around great wit and bon vivant of the 1920's -- Robert Benchley. ============================================= The commentator goes on to detail his career in film and writing, his early life, contemporaries, and numerous anecdotes, each one better than the last. At one point, he describes his subject as a "boulevardier," which apparently is a French word meaning someone who drinks too much - although you wouldn't expect the French, of all people, to even have a word for that, or think it would be necessary to do so in the first place. In any case, it doesn't take long for the whole essay to start skidding off the tracks, with one minor lapse or mishap after another, until it just becomes a painful exercise in groans and eye-rolling for the affronted reader: ============================= it looked life a moving pipe organ a tardy slip even if he just slightly late hunt them down before they wrecked havoc upon the Big Apple Mrs. Parker soon abandoned at the office. with the Gothic script words: "In Memorium." since been overshadowed, but his work remain in print mild criticism of actress Billy Burke's talents ============================= Now, if this were assorted observations on the World Wrestling Federation, or rap music, I would certainly expect typos to be part and parcel of the entire presentation, but in an article of lofty literary aspirations, I found them distracting and disconcerting - and worse, something that the most cursory proofreading would have easily prevented to start with. (Heck, for "The Wizard of Oz" alone, Billie Burke is certainly famous enough to have her name spelled right by just about anybody.) I'm starting to think this idea of being born a marmot is not so crazy after all. Speaking of typos, one place I admit I was not expecting to find them was in the emergency codes on the hospital web page, which were revised to line up with new federal regulations that require standardization among healthcare organizations across the country - or at least that was supposed to be the plan, but I have to say that I have my doubts, based on the following list: 111 - Rapid Response Intervention 333 - E.R. Trauma Red - Fire Green - Evacuation Yellow - Bomb Treat Blue - Cardiac Arrest Bravo - Biohazard Treat Amber - Infant Abduction Orange - HAZMAT Incident I can't speak for anyone else, but personally I don't consider bombs or biohazards as much of a treat, compared to being a threat instead. Of course, the spell-checker is not going to help anyone with that - not that you would think someone would need extra help with a simple word like "threat" anyway - but it did serve to inject an unexpected element of comedy into an otherwise perilous subject. And while we're on the topic of health care, I couldn't help but notice - amidst all of the hoopla, fanfare, controversy and confusion surrounding the Affordable Care Act - that some wags had taken advantage of the program's notoriety to create a FaceBook page dedicated to the Adorable Care Act, replete with all of the most aww-inspiring baby animals that anyone could hope for in any one place at the same time. Their only purpose seems to be touting the benefits of universal health care, and they don't claim to be impartial by any means. In fact, their not-so-hidden agenda has been lambasted by critics, who appear to be impervious to their cuteness. Of course, I could have told them what they needed was a baby marmot right from the start. Meanwhile on the entertainment front, with is own well-deserved hoopla and fanfare, we have the release of the Hobbit sequel, "The Desolation of Smaug," which needs no help from me to improve its popularity, since it's been a runaway success since opening day. In fact, it's been out and playing in every movie complex in the country for so long that even Bill and I finally got around to seeing it last week, so that tells you something right there. We saw it in glorious IMAX 3-D, which can turn the most mundane experience into a riveting spectacle, from James Earl Jones reading the Yellow Pages, all the way down to watching grass grow. The new Hobbit is neither, and certainly lives up to the hype as far as special effects, which run the gamut from mesmerizing to mind-boggling, and everything in between. It features an admittedly slight storyline, but the action never lags, and nobody is going to fall asleep during its headlong and bombastic narrative, that's for sure. Like many "middle segments" of trilogies, this one really doesn't stand on its own, but it's no less entertaining for all that, and we were glad to see it, especially after having already seen the first one. Unfortunately, they leave the story with a fire-breathing dragon about the unleash a reign of terror upon the defenseless townspeople, so it appears that things are about to get a whole lot worse before they get any better. Frankly, my advice to them would be to just go ahead and get a marmot now, that seems to be the only thing that works these days. Elle

Save The Date

Hello World, Well, anyone can see that the bright and shiny new year of 2014 is marching right along in much the same way as 2013 before it, and here it is, the second week of January already. The poor beleaguered merchants don't know what to do with themselves anymore, after the frenzy of Black Friday, the extravagance of Christmas, and the avalanche of returns have already come and gone, and all of the throngs of weary shoppers have returned to their normal routines of hearth and home, no longer camping outside of big box stores all night for the most enticing bargains of the season. Now we find that the stores are deserted at all hours, with nothing but the sound of crickets on all sides, and only impending snow storms can make people rush out in hordes to stock up on milk, toilet paper and batteries. This is scarcely the spendthrift windfall the retailers are craving, and their desperate attempts to try and drum up interest in Valentine's Day all too often fall on deaf ears, except for chocolates, flowers and jewelry. Easter isn't until April, and the next real gift-giving opportunities won't show up until moms and dads, brides and grads hit the scene much later in the spring. This would be a good time for all of us to get out there and buy something just for the heck of it, and the bigger the better, to keep the economy chugging along on its rocky road to recovery. A new house would be good, and two would be even better, and did I mention, that third house makes you look so much thinner! And while we're on the subject of gifts, we had a spot of trouble around here getting our schedules to line up for the big day on December 25, so we celebrated our own late mini Christmas on New Year's Day instead, and I don't mind saying that a very relaxed time was had by all, and I ought to know. Bill and I had stayed up late to watch the ball drop the night before, so we certainly didn't get up early to tear into presents, like the long-ago days of years gone by, and which could only be considered an improvement under the circumstances. It made no difference to the cinnamon buns that it was a week late, I can assure you, and all of the stocking stuffers, holiday decorations, and yuletide presents were just as welcome as if they had been right on time. There were gifts of warmth, always appreciated, as well as practical household items, and trinkets whose only usefulness was their entertainment value. Of course, there's always gadgets galore nowadays, and they did not disappoint, although a couple may have mystified their recipients a bit. Bill got wireless headphones for our big screen TV, so he can watch the most explosive action films, or most raucous college football games, even in the wee hours, without disturbing the slumbers of anyone in the next room. Since my rickety old computer has been acting up, Santa decided I needed a brand new Lenovo ThinkCentre Edge, which is one of those all-in-one models where the hard drive, CD drive and all the ports are built right into the monitor, and there's no separate CPU to take up space on the desk or floor. What won't they think of next, I ask you. One of my favorite things was something that we used to call a "transistor radio" back in the day, and I had spotted our bathroom contractor using it during that project, and was impressed with its small size but big sound and versatility. Of course, it only plays 60's surf music from the bygone beach blanket bingo days, but you can't have everything, I guess. (Only kidding!) All in all, we had a fun day, and although the date might have been slightly off, everything else was right on target. Now that we were on a roll, we figured it was time to get the Christmas caravan cranked up in earnest, so we packed the car full of presents and headed for my sister's log cabin in the woods for Christmas III: The Sequel over the weekend. Unfortunately the weather did not cooperate, with that monster blizzard from the mid-west dumping double digits of snow all over the northeast, so that my other sister from Long Island was unable to join in the festivities with the rest of us. We had no choice but to soldier on without her, and make the best of challenging conditions that were less than ideal for traveling, even 2 days later. But our hosts greeted us with warmth and appetizers to leave our troubles behind us, and we had already taken precautions to check into our motel and turn up the heat, so we had no deep freeze surprises to worry about at bedtime. After lunch, it was presents, presents, and more presents, followed by dessert - and if there's a better way to spend a day, by golly, I haven't heard of it. All too soon, it was time to turn in, and while Bill felt the room could have been more comfortable, I was too sleepy to put up much of a protest, one way or another. In the morning, we hurried back to the cabin for French toast, and plenty of it, and there was no lack of left-over snacks and desserts on top of everything else. There's no denying that for two days that weren't technically Christmas, we certainly had a holly-jolly, sugar-plum-dancing, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la time of it, and that's not just the egg nog talking, believe me. Then we figured as long as we were way up north anyway, we might as well squeeze in a rendezvous with our friends from the capital region, and we arranged to meet them at the Phoenicia Diner, where we had been years before, after a trip on a tiny tourist railroad, and found it extremely diverting. [Alert readers are welcome to check out my original note about that quixotic excursion from way back in June 2004 - although it would probably be carved into stone tablets on some old steam-powered computer tucked away in a dusty corner of the attic by now, I shouldn't wonder.] Unfortunately, much had changed in the intervening years, none of it for the better, and we were sorely disappointed. But it was great to see our friends again, and there were even gifts, so we managed to keep the chorus of complaints to a minimum. Afterward, we stopped at the nearby Emerson Center in Mt. Tremper, where we had also been before on a previous visit, to browse in their interesting shops full of unique and off-beat curiosities. Soon we noticed that it had started to rain, and with long drives ahead of us in both directions, we decided to call it a day and head for home. Of course, for us that always means a disembarkation at Denny's along the way, but even here, what should have been a tried-and-true fountain drink like I usually have, was instead more of a botched misfire, and another disappointment from about the last place we would have expected. On a positive note, most of the rain held off for the ride home, and since we already had dinner, we had nothing else to do once we got there but relax and enjoy the comforts of home, sweet home once again. I won't say the cats were exactly euphoric to see us again, but their bored indifference is reassuring in its own right, and a mainstay of our journeys that we have come to rely on. Which is just as well, since the Christmas caravan hasn't seen the last of us yet, and still has more stops to make on its merry way, at even more dates that are not now, nor have they ever been, actually Christmas day itself. So stay tuned for more adventures from caravan-land, which will not rest until the last cane has been candied, the last bell has been jingled, and the last hall has been decked, or know the reason why. By the way, the President's economic advisers asked me to mention that those extra houses make you look so much younger! Elle

Peek-A-Boo-Boo

Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea: Happy New Year to one and all! There's no time like the present to look ahead with courage and enthusiasm as the bright shiny new year unfolds before us. This would also be a good time to take a look back and appreciate all the special moments and memories we have to be thankful for, over the recently departed year and other years past. We might also sneak a peek inward at our private self and take stock - talking to the man in the mirror, as the song goes - perhaps check under the hood, kick the tires, take it for a spin around the block, so to speak. In the driver's seat today I'm happy to welcome the incomparable raconteur Robert Benchley, who once famously observed that he previously worked with fellow writer Dorothy Parker in an office so small that one cubic foot less of space, and it "would have constituted adultery." There being no way to improve upon that, I certainly am not fool enough to try. Now here is a New Year's message I think we can all live with - ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ "Malignant Mirrors" AS A RULE, I try not to look into mirrors any more than is absolutely necessary. Things are depressing enough as they are without my going out of my way to make myself miserable. But every once in a while it is unavoidable. There are certain mirrors in town with which I am brought face to face on occasion and there is nothing to do but make the best of it. I have come to classify them according to the harshness with which they fling the truth into my face. I am unquestionably at my worst in the mirror before which I try on hats. I may have been going along all winter thinking of other things, dwelling on what people tell me is really a splendid spiritual side to my nature, thinking of myself as rather a fine sort of person, not dashing perhaps, but one from whose countenance shines a great light of honesty and courage which is even more to be desired than physical beauty. I rather imagine that little children on the street and grizzled Supreme Court justices out for a walk turn as I pass and say "A fine face. Plain, but fine." Then I go in to buy a hat. The mirror in the hat store is triplicate, so that you see yourself not only head-on but from each side. The appearance that I present to myself in this mirror is that of three police-department photographs showing all possible approaches to the face of Harry DuChamps, alias Harry Duval, alias Harry Duffy, wanted in Rochester for the murder of Nettie Lubitch, age 5. All that is missing is the longitudinal scar across the right cheek. I have never seen a meaner face than mine is in the hat-store mirror. I could stand its not being handsome. I could even stand looking weak in an attractive, man-about-town sort of way. But in the right hand mirror there confronts me a hang-dog face, the face of a yellow craven, while at the left leers an even more repulsive type, sensual and cruel. Furthermore, even though I have had a hair-cut that very day, there is an unkempt fringe showing over my collar in back and the collar itself, (a Wimpet, 14-1/2, which looked so well on the young man in the car-card) seems to be something that would be worn by a Maine guide when he goes into Portland for the day. My suit needs pressing and there is a general air of its having been given to me, with ten dollars, by the State on my departure from Sing Sing the day before. But for an unfavorable full-length view, nothing can compare with the one that I get of myself as I pass the shoe-store on the corner. They have a mirror in the window, so set that it catches the reflection of people as they step up on the curb. When there are other forms in the picture it is not always easy to identify yourself at first, especially at a distance, and every morning on my way to work, unless I deliberately avert my face, I am mortified to discover that the unpleasant-looking man, with the rather effeminate, swinging gait, whom I see mincing along through the crowd, is none other than myself. The only good mirror in the list is the one in the elevator of my clothing-store. There is a subdued light in the car, a sort of golden glow which softens and idealizes, and the mirror shows only a two-thirds length, making it impossible to see how badly the cuffs on my trousers bag over the tops of my shoes. Here I become myself again. I have even thought that I might be handsome if I paid as much attention to my looks as some men do. In this mirror, my clothes look (for the last time) as similar clothes look on well-dressed men. A hat which is in every respect perfect when seen here, immediately becomes a senatorial sombrero when I step out into the street, but for the brief space of time while I am in that elevator, I am the distingué, clean-cut, splendid figure of a man that the original blue-prints called for. I wonder if it takes much experience to run an elevator, for if it doesn't, I would like to make my life-work running that car with the magic mirror. – Life, June 29, 1922