I'll Drink To That

Hello World, Greetings again from our little corner of the world to yours, and you don't dare mention the weather to anyone, no matter where they live, because it's just been so outrageous everywhere, and just when you think it can't possibly get any worse, that's exactly what it does, and often in the oddest places. Of course, we've all long since resigned ourselves to the idea that things can always be worse, and not to make light of anyone else's problems, but a recent story in the newspaper about a firehouse burning down in Goldens Bridge may have set a new standard for irony, if nothing else. To their credit, The Journal News reported the incident without a hint of sarcasm - which I personally would have thought would be impossible under the circumstances - although I found it about as incredulous as a burglary at a Police station, or getting frostbite at a tanning salon. They said the blaze was sparked by a faulty electrical connection to a fire truck, and in spite of the fact that it was broad daylight at the time and the firehouse was not deserted, and also had plenty of firefighting equipment and vehicles right at hand, it took less than 15 minutes for the building to become engulfed in flames and shooting through the roof. It's all too easy to poke fun, but here I'm thinking, those well-meaning volunteers at the firehouse might not want to give up their day jobs just yet. Also not covering themselves with glory, the article right under that was about Westchester Medical Center's plan to purchase a local hospital, that was approved in federal bankruptcy court, or as the sub-head explained it: ============================ Medical Center clears hurtle in St. Francis buy ============================ Ouch! I won't even mention the spell-checker here, because even the most backward schoolchild should be expected to understand the difference between "hurdle" and "hurtle," much less actual newspaper reporters, for heaven's sake. Honestly, you just can't make this stuff up. Speaking of making stuff up, in honor of the upcoming Academy Awards festivities, the newspaper ran a feature about classic movie cocktails, although they point out there is no category for "Best Supporting Drink" at the ceremonies. Perhaps there should be, as they often play an important role as props, symbols or reflections of current society in an indelible way, from the famous tippling of "The Thin Man" to James Bond's iconic martini, and just about everything before and since. We have Cheryl Charming to thank for tracking the history of movie drinks on her web site, and please do feel free to go right ahead and visit at www.MissCharming.com and see for yourself. Her list starts all the way back in 1917 with the Charlie Chaplin film "The Adventurer," in which he makes what appears to be a whiskey and soda. His exact method: Squirt the soda into the whiskey bottle, drink from the bottle, then use the glass as an ashtray. That may have been an idea whose time had not yet come, or may not actually ever come, but let's face it, ya gotta love it! In other entertainment news, such as it is, apparently the only schools of thought on "The Wizard of Oz" are fans who love it, and others who are even more fanatical about it, with nobody in the neutral camp, or God forbid, anyone who just doesn't like it to start with. In honor of the 75th anniversary of its original release in 1939, Warner Brothers teamed up with technical experts from a variety of sources, and created a re-mastered version from the original negatives that were still safely in storage. The finished product rendered the story not only in 3-D, which would seem a natural for this sort of imaginative fantasy, but also IMAX, which would add a mind-blowing impact on top of everything else, especially to many of the special effects sequences in the Emerald City segments of the picture. Rapt audiences would find themselves completely enveloped in the narrative, sucked up by tornado winds, surrounded by Munchkins, and chased by flying monkeys on all sides, not to mention, lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Even the purists who consider the film a national treasure begrudgingly admit that the work was meticulously done, and the results were far superior to what anyone expected. The 3-D version is available for home viewing on Blu-Ray, and if you see the theatrical version popping up in your nearby IMAX cinema, you might want to check it out and see what all the fuss is about. After all, there's no place like home, and I'm not just talking about Kansas, Toto. In other news, and in what I would consider typical fashion for the way this winter has been going, we hit yet another snag in our continuing efforts to liberate my poor car from its icy confines in the back yard. I don't want to be the one who says this winter has been so intractably abominable, but here's a cautionary tale that should give anyone pause. We asked our landscapers to come and plow out the driveway, and clear a path to the back of the Chevy, as the first step of the process. What happened instead was that their truck got stuck in the ice halfway to the back yard, and in their attempts to dig the truck out, somehow the plow blade managed to punch a hole in our neighbor's new fence, thanks not. (When we complained to the landscapers later, they replied blandly, "Oh, we thought that was your fence," as if that would have made it all right.) They were finally able to extricate the truck and back down the driveway, but they never got close enough to the Aveo that anyone could reach it, and also left a huge lump of snow and ice piled up behind it, which was as far forward as the truck reached before getting stuck, and once again, thanks oh so very much not. So that plan, while decent in theory, fell woefully short in execution, much to our chagrin, and I can't say that the neighbors thought all that much of it either, I shouldn't wonder. Of course, Bill is not one to be daunted, and heroically dug out around the car with sheer brute force in spite of the conditions, and accomplished by hand what tons of mechanical equipment had failed to do previously - and didn't even break anything in the process. After that, we hatched a plan to have our automotive dream team come over and get that little red bucket of bolts back up and running, or know the reason why, by golly. Frankly, I'm not worried unless something catches on fire and we have to call Goldens Bridge, and then, all bets are off. Elle

Love And Kisses

Hello World, Happy Valentine's Day! Here's hoping, to paraphrase the Bard, that on Fortune's cap, you are the very button, and that the endearing Cupid and his quiver full of arrows has you fixed firmly in his sights, bringing you everything your heart desires. Failing that, the back-up plan would be to wait until after the God of Love's signature day, and scoop up bargains on all manner of heart-shaped, lace-trimmed left-over confections which you can enjoy just as much, at a fraction of their original cost. I call it "Cupid 2.0, the Ides of February," which may not seem very romantic, but on the other hand, tastes a lot better than it sounds. The Holiday Police may quibble, but I'm not worried, I can usually shut them up with candy hearts and cherry cordials. Bonbons, anyone? Of course, Monday is Presidents Day, with plenty of Hail to the Chief, not to mention, pomp and circumstance for the Executive Branch, and long may she wave, by jingo. Nobody needs me to trot out every presidential, colonial, revolutionary or ante-bellum cliche, stereotype, pun or colloquialism under the sun, heaven knows, since the vast array of merchants no doubt already covered all the bases on that front, not only going all the way around Robin Hood's barn, but also pulling out all the stops, and leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to lure shoppers with their clever commercials and snappy store displays. A space alien landing from a far distant galaxy could be forgiven for getting the impression that apparently what the Father of our Country and the Great Emancipator most wanted from public office was a platform from which they could cajole, coerce or connive a docile populace into stores to purchase big-ticket items in honor of their birthdays. And let's face it, we have their likeness on our money, so I guess that tells you something right there about our priorities, and maybe the space aliens are not so far off the mark after all. So get on out there and spread around all of the dead presidents that you can - although I have to admit, I'm more of a Benjamin Franklin sort of gal myself. And while we're on the topic of the dearly departed, we all know how these things go in bunches, and hard on the heels of Ralph Kiner last week, we had a couple of other celebrated personages breathe their last, notably TV pioneer and comedy icon Sid Caesar (who also at 91 must have been born in the same year as Pittsburgh's famous slugger) and the ever effervescent Shirley Temple, who managed to pack 90+ years of experiences into only 85 birthdays. (I pointed out to Bill that she shouldn't expect a very warm welcome from my mother when she gets there, and she also shouldn't count on diplomatic immunity protecting her at this point either.) Fortunately they continue to live on in our memories, as well as films and television recordings, so that we can still savor those golden moments when the world was young, and they held us in their thrall. So long, Nairobi Trio and Good Ship Lollipop, you may as well take your shoes with you, because nobody's going to be able to fill them. Normally this is where I would be saying something like, it does no good to complain about the horrendous weather, when it's winter in New York, and what can you expect but cold and snow, after all. But anyone can tell who lives anywhere, or watches television, that it hasn't just been here, it's been just about everywhere in the country, including places that have never seen snow before in their history. Of course, it's all too easy to blame me, since I never set up the bird bath heaters last year, which no doubt would have ushered in an era of unprecedented winter heat waves, such as the world has never seen, since our old friends the dinosaurs were roaming the vast unformed land masses in the primordial ooze. I accept full responsibility for that, however, I still think there's more at work here, and we need to cast a wider net to nail down what is really going on behind the scenes of this record-breaking avalanche of accumulations from all corners of the continent - and next, we'll probably be hearing it even from Hawaii, I shouldn't wonder. It's gotten so bad that our local newspaper printed a section from their FaceBook page where visitors completed the following phrase: "You know you have snow fatigue when ..... ===================================== ..... the sound of Al Roker's voice makes your heart race." [Steve T.] ..... you fantasize about mowing the lawn." [Judy W.] ..... you plan a trip to Punxsutawney, Pa., with terrible thoughts in your head." [Bob D.] ..... your shoveling-induced delirium leaves you standing at the end of a clean walk, hands held high, acknowledging the neighbors as if you had just won gold in Sochi." [Brian F.] ====================================== Well, it certainly sounds like snow fatigue to me, and I'm sure we can all agree with that, even if it's nothing more than a spurious concept that doesn't really even exist, except for the purposes of selling more newspapers. I can tell you it seems real enough to those of us who never want to see another snow shovel, and I ought to know. Speaking of cabin fever, for anyone with a big screen TV and other enhancements at their disposal, I'd be happy to recommend "Puss in Boots" in 3-D on DVD, which we watched recently, and was entertaining enough as these animated features go nowadays. The voice cast includes Antonio Banderas, Salma Hayek and Billy Bob Thornton, and the animation is top notch, with 3-D special effects that are stunning. It's certainly not what I would describe as a kiddie movie, with some very adult themes and a somewhat complicated and unnerving plot that I wouldn't wish on youngsters, no matter how sophisticated they might seem. In fact, the villain of the piece somehow turns out to be Humpty Dumpty, of all people, which seemed an odd choice considering that they also climbed up Jack's proverbial beanstalk, where you would have expected the fabled Giant to be the easy target in the annals of storybook villainy. Be that as it may, it was still an enjoyable way to pass the time when the weather outside was frightful, and I always say, everything is better in 3-D, and that's not just Mother Goose talking, believe me. Among the limited choices for 3-D DVDs, this is certainly a viable option, and not the light-weight fluff piece that might be expected, given the subject matter. And even better for those of us with snow fatigue, not a flake in sight, and I don't mind saying, hooray for Hollywood. Elle

Let The Games Begin

Hello World, Well, anyone can tell that the month is certainly charging right along when even Waitangi Day has come and gone, which I must say, was pretty quiet for all that, and seemed to avoid all of the usual controversy and riots for a change. Now we're coming up hard and fast on Valentine's Day, as anybody can see who has been in the stores since the day after Christmas, which will be here Friday, and right on the dot. So for those of us not yet ready with the hearts and flowers, satin and lace, and especially sweets and sparklers (and let's face it, there's no such thing as too much of that, I'm thinking) here is your "early warning system" reminder to get on the ball before it's too late. Unlike many other years when the holiday falls during Lent and puts a damper on the whole lovey-dovey lollapalooza, this time Ash Wednesday is not until the beginning of March, so besotted lovers are at liberty to indulge in every extravagance as the whim might take them. And it goes without saying that the advantage when it comes to chocolate and jewelry is that one size fits all, not to mention, the more the merrier. And speaking of extravaganzas, they somehow managed to get the inaugural northeast outdoor Super Bowl to come off without a hitch, and a fine time was had by all, by all accounts (except perhaps for the Broncos and their disappointed fans) so now we can well and truly close the book on the 2013 football season once and for all. After all of the consternation and speculation since this cockamamie idea was first proposed, in the end, it turned out that the weather was not a factor after all, considering that it was February in New Jersey of all things. Alert readers may have noticed that Eli the famous ape from the Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City was right on the money, and once again came across with the winner, making him 7 in a row since 2008, which is a record of perfection that odds-makers and bookies could only aspire to in their dreams. Of course, it was during the infamous Scopes evolution trial way back in 1925 that the phrase was popularized: "You can't make a monkey out of me" - but if that's what it takes to pick the winners on a consistent basis, I'm beginning to think that idea doesn't sound half-bad after all. Instead of the notorious Jimmy the Greek of lore and legend, we could start a whole new tradition with Bonzo the Banana or Cheetah the Baditah, and that's not just a bunch of coconuts, believe me. In other sports news, of course the winter Olympics have gotten underway in Sochi to the delight of their devoted fans of all things frosty. I can't help but feel that the way things are going around here lately, shoveling snow should be a medal event, and at the very least, we should all get souvenir T-shirts and coffee mugs for our participation, however reluctant, and I ought to know. Frankly, I have to admit that I have long since lost interest in the supposed Winter Games, having failed the first test of the season by neglecting to include such cold-weather mainstays as snowball fights, sledding, snowman building or snow angels, for heaven's sake. After all, what the heck kind of "winter games" could they possibly be without that, I ask you, and still have things like curling instead. The mind reels. Meanwhile on the other side of the spectrum, we have the 3 most beautiful words in the English language, namely, Pitchers and Catchers are reporting to Spring Training camps all over the sunny shores of Florida and the balmy desert of Arizona, and if there's a more welcome sight in the middle of February in the frozen north, by golly, I don't know what it is. I don't mind saying there's nothing more therapeutic than the sight of robust young men in short sleeves tossing around the old horsehide in the glorious sunshine and green grass, and it's certainly a tonic for what ails you when the weather outside is frightful, and no end in sight. These are indeed the golden days, as the upcoming season, bright with promise, is stretching out before them, full of unlimited possibilities and untapped potential, like a beautiful dream. Of course, the regular season might end up more like "Nightmare on Elm Street" than "Field of Dreams," but hey - in February, everyone's got the same chance to be a champion, at least in their own mind. Whatever they might or might not do, they'll have to get along without the legendary slugger and venerable Mets announcer Ralph Kiner, who died earlier this week at the ripe old age of 91, finally hanging up his cleats and heading off for that great big diamond in the sky, where the Boys of Summer can continue to play in perpetuity, or maybe even longer, for all I know. As a player, his stats speak for themselves need no hyperbole from me. But it was as a commentator that he was at his most colorful, insightful, and entertaining, often hilariously so - and his fame as a baseball scholar and raconteur knew no bounds. Here's a typical example that seems particularly apt at this time: [[ Once, when the Mets were demonstrating their well known baseball ineptitude, invoking the name and wisdom of their original manager, he observed, “If Casey Stengel were alive today, he'd be spinning in his grave.” ]] Heck, I think even Casey Stengel himself would have to agree with that one, Ralphie. On the local scene, alert readers may be relieved - or perhaps terrified might be the more appropriate term - to learn that I was finally able to get a prescription for new eyeglasses that would work with both eyes together, and I was all set to get ready and drive to church for the first time since October, and looking forward to it after all this time. Overall, we figured it was a good time to give this a try as our initial attempt at resuming normal vehicular mobility after my cornea treatment late last year, since it was a warm day, bright and sunny with no particular weather conditions to cause any problems, or add extra challenges to the situation. Supposedly there would be light traffic on Sunday, and no added time pressure or parking difficulties associated with going to work, so this would be comparatively easy, stress-free and as uncomplicated as we could possibly hope for. I started out with high hopes and a head full of steam, and Bill wished me well and waved me off like a mother bird watching her baby fledgling take flight out of the nest for the first time, with a mixture of staunch encouragement and outright terror at the very prospect. In the end, it turned out that the joke was on us, because after all that, the car wouldn't start anyway, so the great experiment came to naught, which was certainly a disappointing climax after all of the anticipation. Since then, circumstances have conspired to prevent any repeated efforts in that direction, as both the car and the driveway remain buried under vast ice sheets, with only the merest hint that they ever existed in the first place, and only the faint flame of memory keeping the hope alive of seeing them resurface once again - although at this rate, that could easily be months in the future, I shouldn't wonder. So it would seem that the universe is obviously trying to tell me something, and I've got a pretty good idea exactly what, and no need of ill-mannered snickering by our old friends the dinosaurs as editorial comment, I can assure you, and thanks so very much not. Well, all I have to say to them now is just wait until snowball fights are an Olympic event, and then we'll see who's on top of their game and has the last laugh after all. Frankly, I'm not even worried about having to face off against the dinosaurs in the Olympics, because let's face it, the super-continent of Pangaea isn't even recognized as a country by the Olympic committee in the first place, and I don't mind saying, probably a good thing too. Elle

Monkey Business

Hello World, Happy Chinese New Year! The annual extravaganza started early this year, and ushers in the Year of the Horse, which apparently bolted out of the starting gate with sparks flying, rather than waiting around until the middle of February as they often do. So for all of us born in 1918, 1930, 1942, 1954, 1966, 1978, 1990 or 2002 - and I'm one of them - this is our time to whoop it up and live large, with our manes flying and hooves pounding across the lone prairie, yippee-ki-yo. This would be a good time to enumerate the specific qualities that are identified with people born in these years, but unfortunately my last two poor addled brain cells (which I have renamed Silver and Trigger for the occasion) have been too busy knocking back rice wine and lighting firecrackers to be relied upon for the pin-point accuracy that we strive for in this recurring compendium of blathering drivel, so we will have to do without. Left to my own devices, and if my own personal characteristics are any indication, I would say Horse people are short and dumpy, cantankerous, forgetful, persnickety, delusional, easily overwhelmed, hopelessly unromantic, comically unathletic and woefully near-sighted. I think the Luddite part goes without saying, but on the other hand, the idea of a high-tech horse smacks too much of the malevolent spirit of Affirmed, and I think we've all seen plenty of that already. Once February is here, we're left staring down both barrels of Super Bowl Sunday, and no getting around it. The Big Apple (and riverside neighbors in its orbit) will be pulling out all the stops, and leaving no stone unturned, in a media frenzy of overkill and hyperbole that will be hard to top. After 40 years, the actual game now is of minor importance compared to all of the hoopla, and when it comes to jumping through hoopla, nobody does it better than the city so nice, they named it twice. It may be true that only the mayors of Denver and Seattle care who wins the game, and only the gamblers care about the score, but everyone loves a great party, and this is one rip-snorting, high-octane, star-studded blow-out that can't be ignored, no matter how hard you try, and I ought to know. (I understand that space aliens in far distant galaxies have already complained about the noise, but they're well-known party poopers, so I wouldn't put much stock in that - although I wouldn't recommend taking down the cloaking devices yet, just in case.) For anyone else who doesn't mind taking chances, along comes Eli the famous ape from the Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City, who has picked the correct winning team in the Super Bowl for the past 6 years: the Giants in 2008, Steelers in 2009, Saints in 2010, Packers in 2011, Giants in 2012 and Ravens in 2013, without ever seeing a football game in his entire life. His pick this time is Seattle, so we'll see if his record holds up, or if Peyton "The Comeback Kid" Manning has what it takes to beat the odds, and make a monkey out of Eli the ape - which admittedly, should not be all that hard to do, since he's at least half-way there already. Personally, I've long since learned not to bet against a sure thing, and for what it's worth, my money's on Affirmed. For some people, the even bigger news on Sunday will be Groundhog Day, with all of its attendant fanfare and rituals, as the world's gaze is firmly fixated on the furry prognosticators coming out of their burrows to declare the upcoming conditions for a yearning populace. At this point, I'm pretty sure that just about everybody but the ski slope operators are sick and tired of winter snow and frigid temperatures, so we'd all be just as glad to find out that Spring is right around the corner, rather than the opposite, and thank you so very much not. (I don't mind saying that if The Keystone State's famous Punxsutawney Phil ever throws his lot in league with the nefarious Comrade Mischka and the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, I expect that things would start getting pretty ugly around these parts this time of year, and that's putting it mildly.) In any case, it doesn't really matter what they see when they come to the surface, the one thing we can be sure of is that it still can't be 6 more weeks of football, because the Super Bowl represents the last gasp of the gridiron gambols until training camps open again in the summer, alas. Unlike last year, they already had the Pro Bowl on the previous Sunday, when there were no other games, because it was after the end of the playoffs, and during the extra week off before the Super Bowl. They held the game in delightful Hawaii as usual, but it was a real departure in other aspects, notably the rosters of each side, full of the cream-of-the-crop from across the league. The commissioner's office described it as "unconferenced," meaning that instead of being the usual AFC vs NFC, or East vs West, or North vs South, or even Lefties vs Righties, or whatever other arbitrary criteria they historically use to distinguish between the teams, this time around, they decided to match Team (Deion) Sanders up against Team (Jerry) Rice, letting these legendary greats hold mock drafts to select the players they wanted, regardless of franchise affiliations or geographic restrictions. Whatever they were thinking, it must have worked, because the result was a tightly contested defensive battle that was won by a last-minute 2-point conversion play, in a nail-biting conclusion not usually associated with these kinds of all-star powder-puff games, in any sport. Heck, if they keep up like this, the Pro Bowl will soon be right up there with Punxsutawney Phil in terms of media attention, and the next thing you know, Eli the famous ape will be picking the winners in advance, I shouldn't wonder. And speaking of wondering, alert readers may be wondering, and well may they wonder, if January has already come and gone and the Super Bowl is looming right before our faces, whatever became of the annual congregational meeting at church - where historically speaking, fistfights are the norm, name-calling is just about mandatory, and chair throwing is a time-honored metal event? (Get it?!) After the congregation refused to keep following blindly after the Super Bowl in its dogged persistence ever deeper and deeper into February, they adopted a new constitution that specified the meeting had to be held in January, come what may, and picked the last Sunday of the month for this purpose, sending out notices, collecting reports, and organizing meal components for the potluck luncheon. All this, mind you, in spite of the fact that I had said from the very outset this was a week that I would be unable to be at church, and since I would be responsible for the year-end financial reports and the proposed budget for next year, would blow a sizable hole in the agenda items that contentious factions would need to fight about - I mean, that thoughtful adults would want to discuss in an amicable environment of mutual respect and serious consideration. There was no changing their minds, however, try as I might, and finally I just handed over all of my paperwork to the schnook - I mean, the investment chairperson - who had been designated to present it at the meeting in my place, and went on my merry way with a clear conscience. It seemed unthinkable to me that they would go ahead and have the meeting without me, but they were bound and determined to see it through, no matter what, and I was not going to stand in their way. In what I regarded as an ironic twist after the fact, apparently The Almighty had other plans, because even though the weather was unremarkable that day, and in no way prevented anyone from arriving at church, and even though notices had been sent out and everyone reminded, it still happened that not enough voting members showed up at the appointed time, and they could not convene a quorum to hold a congregational meeting where official business could be voted on. So in the end, they had to start all over again anyway, pick another date, this time in February after all (and coincidentally now even later than the Super Bowl to begin with) and I would have to go ahead and do all the reports that I would have had to do in the first place - and all of which duplication of effort could have been easily avoided if they had just picked a different Sunday to start with. I won't say it's not nice to fool Mother Nature, but on the other hand, they do always say, the devil's in the details, and I personally never doubted it. Of course, it will do no good to blame anyone now, but just between you and me and the doorpost, it certainly seems to have Affirmed's evil hoof prints all over it, and this being the Year of the Horse anyway, we could all be in for a bumpy ride ahead, and that's not just Eli the famous ape talking, believe me. Elle