Girls Just Want To Have Fun

Hello World, Happy Memorial Day weekend! I do hope that your holiday weekend is memorable in every way, and includes plenty of the old red-white-and-blue hoopla and fanfare, of whatever type would most warm the cockles of your heart, so that your la is suitably hooped, your fare is aptly fanned, and your cockles as warm as the proverbial rocket's red glare, by jingo. It's true that the weather has been having its ups and downs in the region lately, but hopefully it will cooperate for a few days with sunny skies and warmer temperatures, to give the unofficial start of the summer season just the balmy kick-off that it deserves, especially after The Winter of our Discontent cast its frigid pall over us for way too long. Now that people have reason to smile again, we might all be forgiven for getting a little bit giddy, and I admit that I'm easily amused, which might account for the following. Obviously, it wouldn't be a holiday weekend, without a newspaper stuffed to the gills with shiny circulars all touting the latest and greatest bargains from retailers of all stripes, from the most humongous international conglomerates, all the way down to the teeniest shoe-string enterprise operating out of the trunk of a car. By far and away, my favorite was from a local automotive dealer, caught up in the spirit of the festivities, who was eager to invite us to their SUMMER CAR-B-CUE Event, where presumably their sale prices would be hot off the grill, the vehicles would be delectable, and the discounts would make our mouths water. Anyway, I thought that was pretty funny, especially for a car dealer. Also cropping up in time for the big weekend blast-off, the creamy spirea has burst into bloom along the rock wall, the Star of Bethlehem popped up in bright patches throughout the yard, and hard on the heels of the creeping phlox already putting on a show of its own, the wild phlox has just launched its lavender glory along the driveway, with its heavenly fragrance that can't be beat, much less duplicated in a laboratory, try as they might. It can't be denied that things are looking pretty darned sharp around the old homestead these days, as Bill just bought a new lawnmower, which did admirable job with the over-grown landscape, and really cut the runaway vegetation down to size, so that even the most pestilent weeds are afraid to show their face. Just about nothing is left now but the usual rampant alien mutant poison ivy, which will long outlast human life and the demise of the sun, and still be whooping it up with the cockroaches when everything else is long gone, mark my words. Also around the property, it occurred to me only much later that our previous discussions about the variety of transient interlopers at the bird feeders somehow neglected to mention the most egregious example, that was spotted last week, big as life and twice as unwelcome, I dare say. There's been a solid gray stray cat hanging around our front porch and chowing down on hand-outs over the cold hard winter, and we call him/her Scooter, because of a decided tendency to scoot away from us down the steps whenever we show up. Mind you, this is after months of feeding this cat, which under the circumstances, you would think would have made us a whole lot more popular, but apparently not, and Scooter has steadfastly resisted any thoughts of warming up to us, from the very beginning and all the way up to the present. But whenever I put food out, I always call out in a friendly manner, to let Scooter know there's something to eat, hoping to forge that positive connection in the feral brain between us and food, and hopefully tip the balance in our favor. On this particular occasion, I looked up to see Scooter lounging contentedly on top of the pans of sunflower seeds that we put out for the birds - as an alternative to the hanging feeders where they may be crowded out by their more assertive brethren, however in their opinion, I'm sure that Scooter was even less of an appealing substitute, no doubt. Of course, everyone knows that I have a long-standing policy against trying to use logic with irrational people, and taking into account that Scooter may have been abandoned by his or her mother at an early age, I nonetheless did my best to explain to the wayward feline the inescapable reality of being a cat and not a bird, and should not be in the bird feeders at any time for any reason. This sobering insight seemed to fall on deaf ears, and far from causing the offending party to vacate the premises, was instead greeted with the pointed indifference usually reserved for cats who already live inside our house. I was resigned to the protest marches and petitions by our feathered friends at my lack of success in this endeavor, but frankly, I thought the press conferences were just way too much. In sports news, the Rangers actually managed to win two games against the mighty Canadiens, although there's a limit to how much more we can expect of that sort of thing, and the last two Cup-less decades have warned even the most die-hard fans not to get their hopes up too much. On the western front, the defending champion Blackhawks are all knotted up with the Kings at one game apiece, and if Los Angeles is eliminated, it will pave the way for a second "Original Six" match-up for Lord Stanley's Cup in two years, when before that, there hadn't been one since 1979, where New York and Montreal battled it out for all the marbles. (By golly, THERE'S an expression that's lost on young people nowadays, I shouldn't wonder.) So it should be interesting times ahead, and my only concern when all is said and done, is if they go to drink champagne out of the Cup, only to find Scooter already sound asleep in there, thanks not. Of course, the big news in sports was the 1-2 favorite California Chrome running away with the Preakness last weekend, and looking like the real deal all the way. It must be said that the race boasted a tiny field of only 10 horses, compared to the mob scene at the Kentucky Derby, and only 3 of the same horses in both races - the others were all "fresh legs" that had been brought in specially for the event, and which ended up not being a factor in the outcome after all. (Although one of the Derby hold-overs was notably not Commanding Curve, who I would have liked to see take another swipe at the favorite, if only for comparison sake.) This was no cake-walk or blow-out, as the pace was much faster than the Derby, and all of the jockeys had to carefully consider their strategy of when to make a move, or risk burning out the pony early and have nothing left for a late surge to the wire. Even the bettors' darling, California Chrome, had to turn on all the after-burners at the end, to hold off a hard-charging challenge down the stretch by Ride on Curlin, who was so impressive late in the Derby, and finished a very strong second at Pimlico. With this win, the big colt becomes just the 13th horse to take the first two legs of the Triple Crown, since Affirmed won all three races in 1978, and we all know how all of the other 12 have turned out since then, it goes without saying. The day was also noteworthy for featuring a female horse (Ria Antonia) female jockey (Rosie Napravnik aboard Bayern, who finished 9th) and female trainer (Linda Rice with Kid Cruz) all in the same race, a first in Preakness history, over its long and storied past. (Actually, the Preakness Stakes is older than its flashier counterpart at Churchill Downs, starting in 1873, while the Kentucky Derby followed in 1875, with the Belmont Stakes being the elder statesman of the group from 1869.) So from here, it's on to the final jewel in the crown, with the Belmont Stakes on June 7th and the eyes of the universe upon them, not to mention, space aliens from far distant galaxies to boot, unless I miss my guess. Once there's a potential Triple Crown in the offing, everyone is all agog and whipped up by a media frenzy like no other - or rather, exactly like it has been for the 13th time since 1978. It remains to be seen if the curse continues to hold up, or if history is made in two weeks, and of course, it behooves us to wish California Chrome well in his efforts, but there's no denying it will be an uphill battle, and at this point, the odds are not on his side, at least if history is any judge. After 36 years, I'm beginning to think that they could run nothing but a single horse all alone in the Belmont Stakes, and the evil spirit of Affirmed would still find a way to prevent it from winning the Triple Crown, one way or another. In other news, alert readers could not help but notice this startling headline in a recent newspaper: ============================== Police say no shots fired at N.J. mall ============================== By golly, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time (and I don't mind saying, not all that very long ago) when a lack of gunfire at a shopping mall would have been such a mundane occurrence as to excite no comment whatsoever, and certainly not a blaring headline in the newspaper, for heaven's sake. Of course, there's no denying that times have certainly changed, and not necessarily for the better, I can tell you that. Normally, this is where I'd be trying my level best to pin it on the evil spirit of Affirmed, weaving its dastardly spell from the great beyond, but frankly, with the Belmont Stakes coming up hard and fast in two weeks, I'm pretty sure that the phantom thoroughbred has bigger fish to fry, as it were. After all, these Triple Crown hopefuls aren't just going to sabotage themselves, heaven knows, and while the conventional wisdom may tell us that records are meant to be broken, personally I've long since learned not to bet against Affirmed, and that's not just a lot of horsefeathers, believe me. Elle

One Perfect Rose

Hello World, So now even the Ides of May have come and gone, and we find ourselves practically right on the very brink of the holiday weekend, because Memorial Day is so early this year since the 31st is a Saturday. Of course, next weekend would be widely considered the unofficial start of the summer season, which admittedly is a rather difficult concept to rally around, since it's been so cold for so long, and in spite of global warming, even this late in the year, a day over 70 degrees remains an elusive objective. But that hasn't prevented Mother Nature from pulling out all the stops, and giving it all she has in the great outdoors. Last week, Bill and I saw a blue bird in the sycamore that was the bluest blue you can imagine seeing out in the wild - in fact, it was so ridiculously blue that you would think it had to be fake, until it flew away. I've never seen anything like it in my whole life, and certainly not around here, that's for sure. Another unexpected sight and recurring visitor to our bird feeders is a white cardinal, which I realize sounds an awful lot like a very bad oxymoron, and I would not have believed it myself, except that I have seen it numerous times with my very own eyes - and don't forget, I can see a lot better now than I used to. It doesn't seem the least bit skittish, or intimidated, at its lack of proper plumage for its species, and congregates in a companionable manner with the other ordinary cardinals, and no one seems to make any issue of it. (Somewhere in the very back of my last two poor addled brain cells, there's a tiny nagging voice of Dr. Martin Luther Cardinal Jr. and his stirring "I Have a Dream" speech about his children's children not being judged on the color of their feathers, or something like that, I'm pretty sure.) And of course, we already had the bright green parrot-like birds in our yard, which prompted this response from a neighbor: ========================== Those green parrots you saw are probably a part of the flock that has been circling Glen Island for the last 10 years or so. They started as maybe 2 or 3 or 4.....but now number at least 15 or so. They first nested in a tree in Glen Island, but after a few rough winters, they got smart and went to the mainland. They somewhere a little southwest of us I believe. We don't see them in the winter now, but in the summer they come swooping by occasionally. Noisy, but great to see, always. Must have escaped from someplace..... ========================== I also heard from a bird watching colleague that these particular birds (likely Monk Parakeets) although native to Argentina, have nested in such large and boisterous numbers throughout the northeast that they are considered pests by local residents, which even their most ardent supporters can't help but admit. (The experts at The Bronx Zoo, explaining the birds' Population Status & Threats, observed archly: "Common throughout its native range, the monk parakeet is considered a species of least concern.") Ouch! I have to believe that somewhere in the great beyond, Dr. Martin Luther Parakeet Jr. is shaking his head, and I can't say that I blame him one bit. In other news with a local slant, and even more improbably, the plucky Rangers somehow managed to claw their way back from a 1-3 game deficit against the mighty Penguins, force a decisive game 7, and actually win the playoff series to advance to the next round. This outcome was so unexpected (although I thought the grief counselors in the locker room were unnecessarily presumptive) that it was greeted with 6-inch type in the Sports section, like the team had just returned from successfully establishing a space colony on Mars or something else equally unprecedented in the history of mankind. Next up is the Canadiens, who eliminated the Bruins in a tough series of their own, while out in the wild, wild west, it's Chicago against Los Angeles - and all four of the teams with the best records during the regular season (Anaheim, Boston, Colorado and Pittsburgh, all well over 100 points for the year) have already been eliminated by the teams below them, that they lorded it over for 82 games, up until the time when it really counted. In hoops action, it only took the juggernaut that is Miami 5 games to oust the overmatched Nets, which had a somewhat bittersweet inevitability about it, nonetheless. Now it's a battle between Indianapolis and Miami, Oklahoma City and San Antonio, where at this point, the only rule is "Win or Go Home." On the local pinstripe scene, hometown loyalists in both camps were miserably unhappy with the most recent Subway Series, as the Mets won both games at Yankee Stadium, while the Yanks turned it around and won both games at Citi Field, and thanks ever so much not. It's really true about no bragging rights there, since the teams are sporting identical .500 records at 19-19, although it's only fair to point out that the Yanks are at the top of their division, while the Mets are in the basement of theirs and already 3-1/2 games out, and once again, thanks so much not. Somewhere off in the great beyond, Dr. Martin Luther Pinstripe Jr. is pounding his fists on the wall, I shouldn't wonder. In spite of their rigorous efforts to maintain the pin-point accuracy which we continually strive for around here, it must be said that our crack research department (who shall remain nameless, but who look suspiciously like me) have been roundly castigated by any number of alert readers, who very correctly pointed out that it was not, in fact, George Pope Morris who penned the immortal lines, "Shoot if you must this old gray head, but only God can make a tree" (and with apologies to John Greenleaf Whittier and Joyce Kilmer, respectively) as the derisive howls of laughter from our old friends the dinosaurs in the Peanut Gallery would have made plain to just about anybody, I'm sure. Of course, Morris was the brains behind "Woodman, Spare That Tree," which was originally published in 1837 under its original title of "The Oak." It's true that part about "My heart-strings round thee cling" doesn't have the same resonance as the reverberating "Shoot if you must, this old gray head," of the legendary Barbara Frietchie - but then, what does? It obviously struck a nerve, or more likely bedeviled enough schoolchildren, to be (at least half-) remembered to this day. Now here's an interesting idea for an online game, take all the partly remembered lines from fusty poems of yesteryear (shoot if you must, the moving finger writes, water water everywhere, why so pale and wan young lover, in Xanadu did Kubla Khan, into the valley of death rode the 600, fare thee well then Hiawatha, quoth the raven "nevermore") and try to make one epic poem out of it all. Do call me when you get to the spot where the fog comes creeping in on little cat paws, and thanks ever so. And just when we thought it was safe to get back on the roads, Bill and I were driving along last week and spotted a commercial pickup truck with a gigantic QR code on the tailgate, like that makes any sense to anybody, but there it was, big as life. Personally, it seems to me that the whole idea would introduce an entirely new level of distracted driving to our mean streets, thanks not, which are already more than bad enough as it is, heaven knows. All we need on top of every other darned thing is people attempting to capture moving QR codes on the backs of other vehicles while driving, as if the indigenous idiot population didn't already have enough ways of trying to kill themselves as it is, and adding in the disadvantage of high speed mobility to the equation besides - not to mention, the innocent bystanders around them, sucked into the craziness vortex through no fault of their own. I don't know about the rest of you, but frankly, the dinosaurs and I are just about ready to join the late and lamented Dr. Martin Luther QR Jr. in throwing in the proverbial towel and calling it a day, or you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Elle

California Angels

Hello World, And so here's another week in the books, with even Cinco de Mayo behind us now, and even the weather showing signs of shaping up around here at long last. A stroll in the yard reveals that the English wood hyacinths have just burst on the scene in subtle hues of white, pale blue and lavender, while the lilacs have popped open in the backyard, lending their intoxicating fragrance to the environs, and much to their improvement, I might add. The wisteria has just started to bloom in our sycamore, which is always a treat outside of the second floor windows, and the azalea is just waiting in the wings now for its own time to shine. Everything is so lovely at this time of year, and we can't help missing our neighbors' exquisite dogwoods along our driveway, which are no more, and across the street, the majestic chestnut that formerly graced our idyllic landscape with its cascades of creamy blossoms at this time of year. Where, oh where, is the late and lamented George Pope Morris, who once famously displayed the courage to utter those immortal words: "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but only God can make a tree," or words to that effect, I'm pretty sure. It was something about trees anyway, and that's not just a lot of sawdust, believe me. Also behind us now is the fabled "Run for the Roses" at the Kentucky Derby (or "The greatest 2 minutes in sports," according to their PR department) with its storied traditions of mint juleps and "My Old Kentucky Home," where the deer and the antelope play - although it occurs to me that Stephen Foster might have something to say about that, come to think of it. At our house, Bill is our resident horse flesh maven, and he always watches the parade of riders on their way to the gate, and picks what he considers the most impressive horse as his choice to win the race. This time he settled on Dance With Fate, a stunning black horse with a lot of spirit, who finished 6th, but certainly looked good doing it. Out of a crowded field of 19 starters, the 2-1 favorite California Chrome basically ran the 1-1/4 mile track wire-to-wire, and then stoutly pulled away down the homestretch to almost a 5-length lead ahead of the nearest horses behind him. Of course, it's no surprise when the favorite wins, and he certainly lived up to the hype in every way. And taking nothing away from horse and rider, I will say that at the very end, Commanding Curve came flying out of absolutely nowhere from the very back of the pack to cut the front-runner's lead to less than 2 lengths at the wire, and might have actually caught him on a longer track. That bolt out of the blue lent an air of excitement to what might have been a hum-drum foregone conclusion, as well as veteran jockey Calvin Borel aboard Ride On Curlin' who came on late from dead last to 7th place, no mean feat in itself. Besides the media frenzy over the favored colt, the big story was female jockey Rosie Napravnik, who unfortunately finished last on Vicar's In Trouble, rather than breaking new ground for the distaff side of the sport, thanks not. It's always 2 weeks from the Derby to the Preakness, and certainly wishing no ill to California Chrome, but I've long since seen bigger horses and faster horses over the decades trying to unseat Affirmed from the legendary Triple Crown, only to be thwarted in one way or another, so I would tell the owners to hold off on having those commemorative T-shirts and caps printed up just yet On the playoff scene, the scrappy Rangers managed to win a second game (out of 5 so far) in their series against Pittsburgh, so they were spared the embarrassment of being swept by the dratted Penguins, which is way better than even their most die-hard fans might have hoped for, under the circumstances. On the hardwood, the poor Nets have dug themselves into a 0-2 hole in their series with the Miami Heat, and winning even one game might prove to be too lofty an expectation at this point - although I should point out that Brooklyn somehow managed to win all four of their meetings during the regular season. In other sports news, such as it is, the Yankees announced that they are retiring Joe Torre's jersey number, although he never played for the team, in recognition of his successful 12-year career behind the Bombers' bench. I couldn't help but notice in a sidebar in the local Sports section, that the franchise had already retired so many numbers (16 - by far and away the most in the major leagues, compared with all of the other teams) that I said to Bill later that pretty soon they're not going to have enough uniform numbers left to put a team on the field, and they're going to have to assign them letters of the alphabet instead. ("Now playing third base for the Yankees, Schlomo Shoofly, #H on your scorecard.") By golly, this could add a whole new dimension to the old Abbott & Costello comedy routine, "U's on First." And speaking of the alphabet, lately I've been playing an interesting computer game called Word Seek, with a 4x4 tile grid, where you have to find adjacent letters across or diagonally to create as many words as you can in 3 minutes, using standard Scrabble rules of spelling and no proper names. When the time is up, it tosses up a screen that shows your results, and which basically says something like - CONGRATULATIONS (the "you moron" part is implied) You formed 47 words out of a possible 683 combinations for a 6% success rate, in the lowest 95% of all players, and thanks ever so much not, I don't mind saying. Adding insult to injury, it then presents you with a compilation of all the words that could be made from the board, or what they claim are words, including such outrages as on the following list: =============== alloxans amesace asthenies bevors callister camasses caterans coigns dopant eloigned ensilages estrones fleered frasses garred geraniols gleyed liernes mendigo oersteds porniest racemose retrorse sanicles sestertia smaltites splore talars tedding venenose ============== Well, heck, anybody can string together letters to make 683 combinations, if you're going to accept any old rubbish like those whoppers, and even worse, and apparently without a hint of irony. It seems obvious to me that the game is in no way averse to allowing completely made-up words like "ZX#MHH-{/&Y6CCC$W:@\+\QKF?PLE" which I'm pretty sure means "I fleered my oersteds and sanicles at the sestertia before we left the retrorse, but I should have gleyed my asthenies and ensilages while the coigns were still in the mendigo" on the planet Remulak. At our house, this is what we call the Mad Libs version of word games, and I for one, will not be swayed by their feeble attempts to foist this vagabond verbiage on an unsuspecting public, as if they were to be considered regular acceptable words in the slightest crevice of the galaxy. Or in the almost immortal words of Stephen Foster, "Splore, splore on the liernes, where the frasses and the camasses play, where dopant is heard, a venenose word, and the amesace is not porniest all day!" Elle

Get Out And Stay Out

Hello World, Happy May! Anyone can tell that we're well on our way through Spring, when the newspaper circulars are chockfull of gift suggestions for moms and dads, brides and grads, and prom season is in full swing to boot. Everywhere you look, flower beds are a veritable paroxysm of vibrant colors, while the flowering trees and shrubs are all decked out in their showiest blossoms. Intermittent warmer temperatures have been a welcome relief from the long-entrenched harsh wintry conditions, and the local flora and fauna have responded with unbridled enthusiasm, from one end of creation to the other, and all the way around Robin Hood's proverbial barn besides, I shouldn't wonder. In fact, last week, Bill and I spotted two enormous bright green parrots in the sycamore, which certainly lent some unexpectedly vivid hues to our landscape that we don't normally see in these parts, that's for sure. (Although I didn't get a very good look at them, and they may well have been a pair of Monk Parakeets, which we've had show up here once before, and I certainly have the pictures to prove it, by golly - or I guess I should say, by Polly.) Weather improvements have been a nice change of pace, but clawing our way out of winter's icy grip has been no mean feat, and even sunny days would make no one reach for their tank tops and flip-flops around here, and you can believe me when I say that we're still wearing our coats and long johns at church, and that's not just a lot of "Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear," I can assure you. But in spite of it all, hope springs eternal, and it was at the Maundy Thursday service (which was still in the middle of April, mind you) when we all heard the unmistakable sounds of the ice cream truck across the street from church, when it was not only a bracing 40 degrees outside (and even colder in church) but also 9:00 at night and pitch black out there, for pity's sake. I certainly did not succumb to what would have been a rather less than irresistible temptation, and not just because my spare change was in my other long johns, believe me. Of course, May Day has come and gone, and whatever all it's famous for, right along with it, so we're already looking at that in the rear-view mirror at this point. Still in front of us is Cinco de Mayo on Monday, when we celebrate with our Mexican brothers and sisters, or just anybody who likes a good party for no particular reason, and after all, who doesn't? For their part, the media has made a colossal kerfuffle (please excuse the technical terminology there) out of the terrible shortage of fresh limes, with its disastrous consequences for tequila drinkers everywhere - or as the dinosaurs and I would say, "Napoleon's revenge." Also this weekend is the 140th running of the venerable Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs, with a field of hopeful 3-year-olds trying their luck against a 36-year-old curse that has yet to be broken - although admittedly, even I'm having trouble blaming the lime shortage on the evil spirit of Affirmed at this point, try as I might. Of course, we wish the ponies well in their endeavors, but frankly, I would keep looking over my shoulder, if I was them. On the hoops front, the playoffs had just barely gotten underway without the Knicks when new President Phil Jackson summarily fired all the coaches, from the top guy all the way down to the lowly underlings, without so much as a by-your-leave. This is usually an indication that the front office would much rather fire all of the under-performing and overpaid players instead, but are unhappily prevented from doing so for contractual reasons, and subsequently take out their frustrations on the other nearest likely targets that present themselves at the time. As the Vancouver Canucks learned to their dismay, after a dismal 36-46 season, replacing the coach is often not the solution to the problem, when it's the players who have to actually play the games, and not the coaches, however gifted or inept they might be. The Canucks also lost no time in cutting loose their coaching staff, after only the first year of multi-year contracts, as well as the General Manager, so that tells you something right there about the "What have you done for us lately" school of thought in Vancouver at the moment. Frankly, this smacks a bit more of Affirmed's handiwork behind the scenes than the lime shortage, but I still have the feeling that somewhere off in the great beyond, Napoleon is having a big fat laugh. In other sports news, the plucky Rangers somehow managed to make it out of first round of the playoffs past the pesky Flyers, and actually won the first game of the series against Pittsburgh, in the face of virtually insurmountable odds, so we can't count on much more of that from this point forward, I can tell you that. Meanwhile, Boston is having a time of it against Montreal, taking 2 overtime periods to squeak out a win in their first game together, and promising to be a bruising series for this Original Six match-up. Out in the great outdoors and in an odd twist for the Boys of Summer, the Mets and Yankees have the same record at this point, but Da Bombers are in first place in their division, while the Amazin's are in 3rd place in theirs, so that's about all you need to know about how the other teams around them are playing, and when it comes to the standings, it's not necessarily how you play, but where you play, that counts. Of course, things can always be worse, and probably will be, and the obvious solution is to come up with drink choices that don't rely on limes, for heaven's sake. At the old homestead, I had occasion to pull the drawers out of the desk in the living room, because I could hear loose crumpled papers that had fallen out behind them, and I was resolved to put things back into their rightful places, or know the reason why. Unaccountably, I stumbled across something in the very back of the bottom drawer, that I had been searching for high and low for months on end, and finally gave up and ordered replacements for, after having exhausted all other options, even though I knew it had to be around here somewhere. I said to Bill later that the lesson to be learned from all this is that I should probably plan to clean out my desk at least once every 10 years, whether it needs it or not. ("These are the jokes, son!") Speaking of jokes, that was exactly what I thought when I happened across a sale circular for Jennifer Convertible, attempting to entice me into their showrooms to examine their wide selection of what they took pains to describe, apparently without irony, as "stationary sofas." It made me realize that this was yet another case where modern developments had forced a new back-formation into existence (like acoustic guitar, rotary telephone, conventional oven) because of a newer invention that had rendered the original language obsolete or misleading. Nowadays in these casual and sedentary times, just about all seating combinations have power reclining features or zero-gravity modules built right in, so for a couch that just sits there and does nothing, the manufacturers have no choice but to identify it - and somewhat disparagingly, I might add - as a stationary sofa. Talk about a couch potato, Ethan Allen! This is verily the couch potato's couch potato, and if they decided to chow down on some spuds while they were there, it would really come full circle, and maybe even more so, although my math is a little bit shaky on that part. Of course, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time, not all that long ago, when furniture that would stay put was considered a perfectly acceptable norm and had no stigma attached to it in any way, in fact, the alternative would have been unthinkable. In these haphazard times, where you can't count on anything to stay put, heaven knows, if the Knicks and Canucks had been on the sofa together, I have no doubt that the management would have thrown out the couches right along with the coaches, stationary or not. You mark my words, somewhere Napoleon and Affirmed are having a great big laugh right about now, and a whole pile of limes, I dare say. I'll have mine with a margarita, por favor. Elle