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