Is There A Doctor In The House?

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves already the end of yet another month, ye gods, and no end in sight. I must say that I simply don't know where the time goes, I honestly don't. On the other hand, the passage of remorseless time has at least brought about longer days and somewhat better weather, and that can only be a good thing after all we've been through over the last several months, and I don't mind saying, thanks so very much not for all that, Old Man Winter. Earlier in the week I actually spotted half a dozen hardy crocus already open on Sunday the 22nd, which may not sound especially early, particularly compared with many other years, but after the winter we had in these parts, believe me, it was positively transports of joy and then some. Also putting in a fledgling appearance around the yard during my gambols, were early shoots of hyacinth and tulips, believe that or not, and although they've got a ways to go yet before they bloom, it's obvious that things are definitely moving in the right direction, and that's the important part. Why, at this rate, it won't be long before we're all complaining about the heat, and won't that be a nice change of pace. And while we're on the subject of spring flowers, I heard from a horticultural friend (thanks, Hindey!) that the lowly dandelion is a critical early food source for honeybees coming out of hibernation, and after everything they've been through they could certainly use a helping hand, so let's all resolve to keep those first dandelions safe, and give the beehives a strong boost to start off a honey of a season. It's the least we can do, for all that bees do for us, and that's not just Rimsky-Korsakov talking, believe me. (In an interesting chronological anomaly, his iconic "Flight of the Bumblebee" was written as an orchestral interlude for his opera "The Tale of Tsar Saltan," which had its premiere in Moscow's Solodovnikov Theater on November 3, 1900, that was actually October 21, 1900 based on the calendar that was being used at the time.) So for all of you folks out there itching to start making dandelion wine (and you know who you are) please give the poor honeybees a break, and hold off on that for a while. Of course, as everyone knows except the godless Communists and KGB agents monitoring my email (whose name is Legion, heaven knows) Palm Sunday is this weekend on March 29, and not a moment too soon, by the look of it. Theologically, the day positively reeks with major ecclesiastical importance, and scholars throughout the ages have plumbed the depths of its esoteric significance and arcane rituals in exhaustive dissertations from one end of Christendom to the other, and back again. That's all well and good, and since I am not a Doctor of Divinity (and I don't even play one on television) I have no basis to quarrel with their opinions or findings, for Pete's sake. But domestically, I can tell you for certain that it is absolutely the cats' favorite Sunday of the entire church year, and there is nothing like fresh palms to send the feline set into giddy heights of rapture. We have new kittens in our household this time around, so we expect it to be very interesting around the old homestead, once the palms cross the threshold. Apart from all that, Palm Sunday also has the distinction of ushering in Holy Week for Christians everywhere, with Maundy Thursday on the 2nd and Good Friday on the 3rd, which also turns out to be the first day of Passover at sundown - and which may or may not be a happy coincidence, depending on your point of view. It all wraps up with a bang the following Sunday on Easter, with all the baskets, bonnets, jelly beans and marshmallow Peeps that anyone could hope for. It doesn't take a Doctor of Lapinology (if only there were such a thing, alas, that's not your spell-checker on the fritz) to hop right on that idea, by golly. In other seasonal news, the dinosaurs and I can remember back in those halcyon days of yore, when spring training was pretty much a romp in the park, as the old-timers showed up to get themselves in shape after a long winter off, and the wide-eyed rookies were fair game for all the pranks that the wily veterans could throw at them. Mostly the days were spent in drills, exercises, and practice, and what games there were, would be short and leisurely, just trying to work the kinks out, and as relaxing for the players and coaching staff as the smattering of fans in the stands. There might be a handful of baseball writers hanging around, enjoying a break from the bitter weather back at home, and filing a cursory story now and then, which would be buried at the bottom of the inside pages, because nobody paid much attention to America's Pastime until it was actually Opening Day up north. How times change, and not always for the better, I can tell you that, and for once, the dinosaurs would have to agree, like it or not. Nowadays spring training is like pennant fever on steroids - everyone gets to camp early, already in perfect condition, there's a cut-throat competition for roster spots, and even the rookies come in loaded for bear and spoiling for a fight. The games are long, arduous contests that are actually shown on television, and they even keep stats, to satisfy the constant media frenzy that accompanies every little move, on and off the diamond. Under the circumstances, it would be almost impossible to get through these early weeks without some collateral damage, and sure enough, the spate of injuries has taken its toll on teams from the southeast to the southwest without partiality or favoritism, from the biggest names at the ol' ballgame, all the way down to the little nobodies that only their mothers would recognize in a big-league uniform. Some of them are even season-ending injuries already, and heck, the season hasn't actually even started yet, by Casey. I'm happy to report that I'm not nearly the hard-boiled cynic like our old friends the dinosaurs, but at this point, even I have to wonder if this isn't just a big conspiracy on the part of baseball doctors to drum up more business. And speaking of doctors, in the "What Have You Done For Us Lately" category, and proving once again, if any more proof was needed, that death is no obstacle to commercial success, I'm sure that all alert readers will be relieved to hear that the late and lamented literary genius, Dr. Seuss, has a new book coming out soon. (I hasten to point out that it is NOT, in fact, "If I Ran The Cemetery," despite the ill-mannered snickering from the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery, and who should certainly know better by now, I dare say.) Random House associate publishing director Cathy Goldsmith says "What Pet Should I Get?" was likely written between 1958 and 1962, and features the same brother and sister seen in the 1960 Dr. Seuss classic, "One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish." It was discovered packed away in a box at the family home in La Jolla by his widow (which frankly doesn't surprise me a bit, if their house is anything like ours) and is expected to be released by the publisher in July. In honor of the upcoming Palm Sunday, I would like to put in my bid for cats to be the answer to the "What Pet Should I Get?" conundrum, but I have the feeling that cats and dogs (or even fish and birds) are going to be a little too mundane for this creative artist, and it's more likely to turn out be something like a tizzle-topped Tufted Mazurka, a pair of Bippo-No-Bungus, or a flying Fizza-ma-Wizza-ma-Dill, I shouldn't wonder. But I will say that if they want to play with palm fronds, by heck, they're going to have to fight our cats for them. Elle

Spring Fever

Hello World, Happy Spring! Admittedly, inasmuch as it was a bracing 30 degrees at the time, with 6 inches of snow pounding down on us all the while, it was a little hard to get entirely into the spirit of the season, I don't mind saying. Fortunately, Saturday was sunny and 20 degrees warmer, so the snow turned out to be more of a minor nuisance and less of a major calamity, especially compared to many other storms during the previous months. On the other hand, earlier last week we had some much warmer weather, and also some rain, and we had finally seen some significant inroads in the piles of snow that were still blighting the landscape everywhere like a bad rash that was all but impervious to treatment. I was out feeding the birds on Sunday, and couldn't help but notice the unmistakable tender shoots of early crocus and daffodils scattered about in the yard, and a more welcome sight would be hard to beat. Talk about your harbingers of Spring, Mother Nature, this is the real deal, and no mistake about it. Can dandelions be far behind? I think not! Of course, St. Patrick's Day was on Tuesday, and if there's a better time for everyone to get their green on, I just don't know what it would be. Now that it's over with, we can all pack away our green pompoms and leprechaun derbies for another year, and get on with our lives, in their usual monochrome monotony. Not so fast! As one of the most famous movable feasts of all time, anyone can tell you that the parades and bagpipes aren't over already, and not by a long shot, begorra. The so-called St. Patrick's Day parades continue at least to the end of the month and beyond, in communities all over the region, with plenty of green beer to spare, and apparently not a hint of irony to be found, from one end to the other. Why, a marching enthusiast in this area could pick just about any old day of the month, and throw a dart, and find a parade dedicated to the Irish saint, and The Holiday Police can go ahead and lump it. Now, there's been little enough to celebrate over this grizzled and miserable winter, so if this is what it takes to make people happy, give them a reason for living, and forget their troubles for a while, by golly, you know I'm all over that like corned beef on cabbage. Green beer, anyone? It's undeniably true - as anyone on FaceBook or other social media can tell you, because there was no getting away from it - that the previous week on Wednesday was my birthday, and they certainly don't shy away from divulging the actual numbers involved, however ugly or depressing those might be to the concerned parties, and I ought to know. Or as one wag took the diplomatic way to describe it, the 32nd celebration of my 29th birthday (thanks, Jim!) which really does take some of the sting out of it somehow. Bill and I had plans to wend our way over to Pizzeria Uno on Central Avenue in Yonkers, since we had already been to the one in White Plains, and felt that there was some room for improvement in that situation. Actually, it was a nice enough place, but complicated to get to, plus being crowded on a Friday (a party of 40 kids didn't help) and I was especially disappointed that the two items I ordered to have together were brought separately, and not to the betterment of either, I can tell you that. Conversely, their Yonkers location is relatively easy to reach, and has unlimited parking right outside the door, so that was an improvement right there over downtown White Plains, and glad of it, believe me. It was fairly quiet on a Wednesday, although not empty by any means, and we found the service very attentive and prompt, so we had no complaints on that score. We thought the food was excellent, including an appetizer of their new soft pretzel sticks with dipping sauce, and naturally, there was no way that we could pass up their new zeppoles for dessert - although truth to tell, any Italian worth their salt would scoff at the idea of these prefab munchies having any relation to actual zeppoles in any way, shape, manner, form, or description whatsoever, I dare say. On the whole, it turned out to be a very nice birthday dinner altogether, with the perhaps added advantage (or disadvantage, depending on your personal philosophy) that you can actually tell them it's your birthday, and they don't round up the whole serving staff to come over to your table and sing some silly song at you, while everyone else in the joint claps and stares. Honestly, you'd think they had never seen anybody turning 29 for the 32nd time. In other local news, I stumbled across some more inadvertent humor at my temporary job, and once again, often in the most unexpected places. All of the client files in our database have a section where you can leave comments, for updates and transactions as they occur, so everyone can see the chronological history of what has happened up to the present. This is a very useful feature, but it does have limited functionality, and for instance, no spell checker of any sort. That probably would have come in handy for the person who posted the comment about sending out medical reports to the individuals involved in the case, using a variety of methods combining speed and thrift. Actually, it came out more like this: "Gave reports to the mailroom to ovenright the state insurance board, ovenright saver the attorney, and regular mail the rest." I love how that looks so cute as "ovenright" instead of "overnight," as if "ovenright" should be its own word, that would be completely acceptable standing on its own. ("This casserole recipe is designed to be perfectly ovenright, and should not be attempted on the stovetop," for example.) On another client file, I discovered this quixotic entry: "Gave the 1/22/15 report to the mairloom." Unlike the hopelessly lackluster "mailroom," this innovative "mairloom" is so delightfully reminiscent of "heirloom" that it can't help but lend an air of genteel dignity to the place, which I don't mind saying, had been sorely lacking up until then. Unfortunately, I can tell you from personal experience that even the most rudimentary spell-checker does, in fact, object to both of these words, often in strenuous arguments of no uncertain terms, however adorable or serendipitous they may appear to innocent bystanders. But in a world where the ubiquitous auto-correct feature often takes all the fun out of things, this was a refreshing glimpse into the fast-fading foibles of the flying fickle fingers of fallible folks. Speaking of fingers, you find in most churches nowadays, no matter where you go, there comes a part in the worship service after the prayers, where those in attendance are requested to join in with "the passing of the peace," and greet each other - perhaps with a friendly wave, a hearty handclasp, a hug or a kiss, depending on the denomination's traditions or the demonstrativeness of their members. I have no idea how they pull this off in those giant mega-churches where 2,000 people all show up at one time, and I'm thinking that maybe a polite nod is all you get out of them. At our church, you can count on the tiny but stalwart company to all get out of their seats, and greet each person individually, which doesn't take as long as it sounds, because there's so few of us. Here is my favorite part of this, which came from an unexpected quarter. There's a woman who comes to church with her little granddaughter, Dallas, who is almost 2 years old now, and can stand by herself and possibly talk, although she doesn't say much, which is probably just as well. When everyone gets up and starts to circulate, Dallas stands in the middle of the center aisle with her hand held out, and if you walk up to her, she happily shakes her hand just like a trained puppy, regardless of whether she actually has your hand or not, and she's just as intent on shaking the empty air as pressing the flesh of a real live person. This is way cuter than it has any reason to be, and has become the highlight of what can often be a rather humdrum affair. It may be early days yet, but here I'm thinking that she's got a bright future in politics, with that million dollar handshake of hers, and pretty soon we could be seeing her marching in all the St. Patrick's Day parades that any one person could possibly handle. I sure hope she likes green beer. Elle

Old Spice

Hello World, Yipes - here's yet another Friday the 13th! This is the second of three that we're going to have this year (be on the lookout for the last one in November) which will happen in any year that starts on a Thursday, regardless of whether it's a Leap Year or not. And speaking of leaping, it was last Saturday when the poor huddled masses, yearning to breathe free (or something like that, anyway) had to leap forward into the confounded tomfoolery of Daylight Saving Time, like it or not, and lose an hour to boot. Fortunately, many electronic devices nowadays build in the time change to their programming, and take care of that tiresome chore for you automatically, and thanks ever so. On our own around here, we mostly changed over only the important clocks that need to be right, like the alarm clocks, and then leave everything else to be handled in dribs and drabs, or just ignored altogether. I've given up on the idea that the dashboard clock in the car is going to sync up with the rest of humanity, at least until the hour switches back over to Standard Time in the winter, and I don't mind saying, not a moment too soon for my tastes. The addle-pated morons behind this cockamamie scheme may think that they're somehow saving me an hour of daylight with this nonsense, but I will never get back all of the time I've wasted chasing around and changing clocks twice a year, and that's a plain fact. Anyone in the local area can tell you that Monday was the first nice day of the entire year so far, being beautifully sunny all day, with temperatures that went all the way up to a balmy 52 - which was a virtual heat wave in these parts, after the single digits and below zero wind chills from just a couple of weeks ago, thanks not. I imagine that the region was dotted with besotted pedestrians out strolling in the lovely weather for a change, and I have no doubt that tank tops, shorts and flip-flops were the order of the day, even with the calendar fixed firmly at the beginning of March. For anyone who was out in the middle of the day, as I was, you couldn't help but notice that everyone seemed to take the opportunity to break out their hogs, like it was some sort of competition, and if you didn't get your bike out on March 9th, you'd never live it down. I never saw so many motorcycles in my life, in every shape and size, and every which where besides. As harbingers of Spring, apparently bikers returning to the highways and byways, are right up there with the swallows returning to Capistrano, I dare say. Also on the home front, it came as a welcome surprise when a friend invited us to join her for a trip to the movies, and since we all wanted to see "The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel," the choice was simple. We had enjoyed the first one immensely, and although it's a well-known axiom that sequels can be tricky to pull off, we nonetheless had high hopes for the new offering, in spite of the reviews, which we thought were petty and captious. But this time, the critics were more right than we were, and I thought not only that it was not as good as the original, but riddled with shortcomings in many different ways. It made no sense at all for anyone who hadn't seen the first one, but even with that advantage, the story had a lot of trouble holding together in any meaningful way, and the cursory plot, slight as it was, often seemed to be its own worst enemy. The whole thing was much more scattershot overall, with any number of extraneous elements being introduced along the way, but never developed, so they ended up being somehow uninteresting as well as distracting at the same time. Like its predecessor, it had some amusing moments, but it was more depressing than it probably meant to be, and even the parts that weren't particularly gloomy, were more wistful than cheerful. The whole effect seemed oddly sad, like going back to an old favorite childhood hangout, only to find it all tattered and derelict in the cold hard light of the present day, and not the wonderland of indulgent memory. One unfortunate victim of this somber narrative was the wildly rambunctious and over-the-top wedding celebration at the end, which compared to the rest of the film, was so jarringly out of place that it was much too inappropriate to be any fun at all. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm a big believer in the redeeming powers of IMAX and 3-D, but even I have to admit that they would have had no success in righting this foundering ship, try as they might. In keeping with the cultural Theme Of The Day, we left the movie theater, and wended our way across town to the new Spice Indian Bistro, which has been up and running for a few weeks in our fair city. Alert readers may recall a previous visit of ours to the Calcutta Curry House, which I would describe in kindness as an upscale anomaly at a storefront in that downtrodden neighborhood, hemmed in by the ubiquitous nail salon, pizza parlor, laundromat, Chinese take-out, barber shop, sports bar, karate studio, bank and dry cleaners. It appeared to be a nice place, but they never seemed to have any customers, and the few times when we ate there, we literally had the place to ourselves. At the time, we wondered, often and at length, how they possibly stayed in business. Well, as it turns out, they didn't. One day when we were picking up pizza from the same block, we noticed there was a new banner tacked up over their sign, with the new name, and hopefully a better idea for attracting customers than the previous establishment. For ourselves, we found the new place was not much of an improvement, in fact, it had some significant drawbacks to start with, and even more as the night wore on. The limited menu had far less variety, which for me was especially noticeable with their lassi (what we would call a fruit smoothie) which had been reduced to only one flavor, and I don't mind saying, I'm not a big fan of mango in any case. Even worse, the service was appalling, not only because the food took over 45 minutes to reach our table, but they also forgot our drinks, and mixed up our appetizers so that we didn't get what we wanted, but instead got stuck with some unidentified items that we hadn't ordered. (It also took 30 minutes before we got any, so they hardly qualified as appetizers at that point, I'm thinking.) Our dinner companion never received her meal at all, so she shared Bill's, and neither of them cared for it much, and for all the amount of time it took to get served, the rice seemed just like minute rice to me, and thanks so much not, Uncle Ben. On the other hand, I thought their paneer naan was excellent, and the shahi paneer that I had could not have been better, so I can't say that it was a total loss after all. But it was way too expensive for all but the most forgiving patrons to excuse the slipshod service and interminable wait for even the most routine menu items, and once again, we walked out the door wondering how a place like that stays in business. They won't be getting our business again, that's for sure, and you can believe me when I say that "The Third Best Exotic Marigold Hotel," even if there is such a thing, will not change our minds on that score. In other local news, anyone familiar with The Queen City on the Sound (only 45 minutes from Broadway, mind you) would certainly remember the iconic Thru-Way Diner on the edge of town, right off the highway, and a fixture in New Rochelle since, well, pretty much forever. (That is to say, that nobody can actually remember how long it had been there, although old-timers claim it was a stagecoach stop during the Colonial period, while others recall it as a caravan way-station on the old spice route in Biblical times. The dinosaurs assure me that they used to go there in the middle of the night for pancakes and ice cream sundaes, but frankly, their memory is notoriously suspect, and I put no faith in their recollections.) Being open 24-hours, it was a haven for truck drivers, a beacon for shift-workers, a respite for weary travelers at all times, and a welcoming destination for hearty appetites, from the lonely single all the way up to large groups. Bill and I were no strangers to the place ourselves, and I can tell you that their signature potato pancakes were absolutely out of this world, and I have never had anything like them, before or since. Suddenly, after decades (or centuries, or millennia, depending on who you talk to) out of the blue, the property owners (Boo! Hiss!) sold the parcel out from under the diner in 2008, just like that, without so much as a by-your-leave, sending the loyalists into paroxysms of grief on an epic scale, that were not to be assuaged with the thought that there were still other diners in the area where they could take their patronage. For their part, the new owners (Boo! Hiss!) tore down the old relic and put up a Walgreens drug store in its place, which promptly went out of business after all that, which is exactly what they deserved, and that's not just the potato pancakes talking, believe me. In any event, the good news is that the company behind the Nautilus Diner in Mamaroneck stepped into the breach, and started building a new diner across the street from the previous location, which they say, should be open any old time now. We decided to take a drive by there last week, and sure enough, where there had been nothing but a pile of rubble for long and despairing months, now an actual diner structure has arisen from the debris, looking just about ready to throw open its doors to a clamoring public once again, and it goes without saying, not a moment too soon, by golly. Of course, if they hire the wait staff from the Spice Indian Bistro, all bets are off. Elle

It's About Time

Hello World, Happy March! In the local area, it can't be denied that the month certainly came roaring in like the fearsome lion it is often compared with, including more snow, thanks not, and ever more frigid temperatures, which it goes without saying, even more thanks so much not. During the week, we were slammed with what they are referring to as Winter Storm Thor, which made enough of a mess around here that I just gave up on it altogether and stayed home from work. Of course, it's bad enough on the roads in the cold and snow, when everything is so slippery, and even worse when you get new snow on top of the ice that's already there, so you don't even know what dangers are lurking underneath. But often the bigger problem is when the streets are clear, and you're faced with the prospect of what appears to be the surface of the moon, which in reality is a treacherous network of potholes, held together loosely by crumbling asphalt, where an actual thoroughfare used to be. In the city, David Letterman recently quipped: “There is a pothole so big on 8th Avenue it has its own Starbucks in it.” But this is an epidemic of mythic proportions, and not confined to the five boroughs by any means, and not by a long shot, believe me. Bill says that across town where he works, the potholes are so deep that you can clearly hear the unmistakable sounds of Chinese community singing coming from the other side, and I have no reason to doubt it for one minute. At this point, I'm thinking all we can hope is that the month will hopefully leave more like a lamb than it came in, and I don't mind saying, not a moment too soon, by golly. And speaking of the opening of the new month, I'm sure I can speak for all of the purists, old-timers, and hide-bound traditionalists, who were no doubt surprised to find what are now laughingly referred to as St. Patrick's Day parades beginning almost 3 weeks before the saint's actual feast day on March 17th. Yes, the local newspaper started showing pictures of marchers and bagpipe bands while it was still February, for Pat's sake, and Mayor De Blasio with his City Hall cohorts braved the elements at the new media darling, the St. Pat's For All Parade in Queens on Sunday March 1st. Since it was snowing and probably 5 degrees at the time, this was more of an endurance test than an easy way to win votes, and I'm thinking, no amount of green beer would be an adequate insulator for that, try as it might. I have no doubt that Hizzoner eschewed any suggestion of Irish anti-freeze at the event, because the way things are going, the paparazzi probably would have discovered him drinking green beer through a straw, and it would have been the "pizza-with-a-knife-and-fork" fiasco all over again. But it occurs to me that since the all-inclusive Queens parade is the one that the politicians march in when they're boycotting the traditional parade in Manhattan, they may as well hold them on the same day, because apparently nobody would dare to march in both of them, that would defeat the whole purpose. Well, if the purpose of your parade was political machinations, that is. Also at the beginning of the month, we celebrated 32 years of wedded bliss on Tuesday, and as the old vaudeville joke goes, happily married for 10 of them, haha. And while we're on the subject of old stuff, it was last year when we were enjoying a night out at the cinema, and saw a trailer for the movie "Horns," starring Daniel Radcliffe (much better known to one and all as the plucky wizard Harry Potter from that franchise of films) and I couldn't help but notice that his character in the story was driving a vintage AMC Gremlin, of all things. There's probably some sort of symbolic message in there somewhere, but as a devoted (some might say, demented) Gremlin owner for the past 4 decades and counting, I'll be darned if I know what it is. "Horns" is a sort of Gothic thriller, and not a comedy, so I've just about ruled out any kind of funny business - although truth to tell, it must be said that it's almost impossible to take a Gremlin seriously, and you certainly can't scare anybody with one, that's for sure. Although come to think of it, it is a bit of a scary thought that when I first started driving my purple passion in 1973, gasoline was 25 cents a gallon (and that's leaded, mind you) and people would drive all the way out into Suffolk County to get it for 23 cents instead. Ah, those were the days, indeed. And speaking of scary stuff, we've come again to that time of year, often when we least expect it, that Daylight Saving Time once again rears its ugly head, and we're stuck with running around changing clocks all over the place, and thanks so very much not. That happens again this weekend, only to be confronted with the harsh reality of it being dark when we expect it to be light, and light when we expect it to be dark, and losing an hour of sleep in the process, which strikes me as a lose-lose-lose proposition all around. If Daylight Saving Time were a beauty pageant contestant, it wouldn't take long for all of the other participants to just band together and throw it out a window, and the Miss Congeniality award be danged. Taken on its own merits (without the tawdry trappings of wrong-headed tradition trailing after it, like a re-animated mummy, desperately trying to somehow lend an air of respectability to it) if anyone proposed Daylight Saving Time to people nowadays, they would be laughed out of government offices from one end of civilization to the other - like the metric system, Equal Rights Amendment, or mandatory warning signs for grouchy Christians who have given up chocolate for Lent. (Although personally, I'm still holding out hope on that last one, and that's not just the talking M&M's talking, believe me.) I know they say that time is relative, but frankly, this is one relative that has long since worn out its welcome with me, and no amount of tick-tock-hickory-dock is going to bring it back into favor, that's for sure. And as long as we're on the topic of things where, as Shakespeare so eloquently put it, "the time is out of joint," I ran across a couple of surprising examples at work, where I was least expecting them, compounded by the fact that I stumbled upon them one right after the other. First there was a letter to an insurance company that was dated December 24, 2014, informing them that their client failed to show for his medical examination on January 15, 2015. Frankly, how they knew that the client did not go to the appointment 3 weeks ahead of time is not only confusing, but has some rather disturbing connotations that I don't even want to think about. After that was one of those automatically generated "out-of-office" reply emails from December 29, 2014 that stated: "I am currently out of the office. I will return to the office on Tuesday, September 2, 2014." I think not! I'm guessing he would need to get in his Way-Back Machine in order for that to work, and even then, he would still end up eventually back at December 29 thinking he was out of the office. Finally there was a curious message that was posted in our database comments about a doctor's office that was planning to be closed for vacation, as they put it, "from 12/18/15 - 12/16/14." Now, that would have been one heck of a vacation, even if they had the years in the right sequence, but as it is, they would not only need their own Way-Back Machine, but would also have to completely warp the time-space continuum to have any hope of making that happen. Personally, I'd love to tag along and see what we discover along the way, but if it turns out to be Mayor De Blasio drinking green beer through a straw, you'll never hear it from me. Elle

Scape Goat

Hello World, Hong Kong Bok Choy! The time has finally come when we can wish all of our Asian friends and relatives a very Happy Chinese New Year, with all of the health and prosperity that anyone could ever hope for, and don't spare the San Yang Kai Tai, my good man! (For all of you not from the inscrutable East, this very auspicious dish, which translates roughly to "Three Goats Bring Wealth," is especially popular in 2015 for The Year of the Sheep. A normal person might wonder why goat stew would be appropriate for a year celebrating sheep, but apparently in the mysterious Orient, sheep and goats and rams are blithely interchangeable, and the year is variously attributed to any one of them at any given time, and seemingly with no rhyme or reason. Personally, I'd hate to be the one trying to get wool off of a goat, but then, that's their problem and not mine, by the baa-baa.) Unlike other ethnic observances, such as Ramadan or Samhain, nobody has to tell the Chinese anything about how to have a good time, and they've been tossing this wild and crazy shindig for centuries, all over the place. There's no lack of parades, fireworks, costumes, food, presents, parties, dancing, and good luck charms - plus the Asian equivalent of green beer, in copious quantities, it goes without saying. These folks don't do anything by half-measures, and they keep it up for days on end, so it winds up being like two weeks of Mardi Gras, St. Patrick's Day, Cinco de Mayo, July 4th, Carnival, and Diwali all rolled into one. I guess it's a lucky thing this only happens once a year, so why don't you go ahead and get your goat on, and party until the sheep come home. Also on the home front, to paraphrase the timeless words of the immortal Bard: "Friends, Romans and Countrymen, lend me your ear muffs!" Now is the winter of our discontent, that is, for anyone who doesn't want to be shoveling snow or chopping ice from their yard on a weekly basis, and sometimes more than once a week. Even without the snowstorms, the temperatures have been so outrageously bone-chilling that every day sets a new low record, since they first started keeping records, and thanks so much not. The Florida Tourism Board would have an easy time selling tickets to frostbitten New Yorkers right about now, I'm thinking, and one-way tickets even more so, I dare say. In any case, the shivering and stubborn remnant have hunkered down here in the frozen north, waiting for Spring to make everything right again. The way things have been going, I can tell you that I intend to greet my rampant alien mutant poison ivy with open arms - not to mention, garden snakes, mosquitoes, dandelions, crab grass, sunburn and humidity - if it ever warms up again around here. It's no wonder that our prehistoric ancestors from every culture celebrated the vernal equinox, to appease the weather gods for a good planting season, and here I'm thinking that sacrifices would not be out of the question either, just in case. And so here on Friday we find ourselves at the last weekend in February, and perched precariously on the very brink of March, since February has only 28 days, and not much wiggle room left, by golly. A lot happened in February, considering it's a short month, and not all of it bad - although with the weather the way it was, I doubt that many people are going to mourn its passing, at least in this area. Apart from the aforementioned St. Patrick's Day, March doesn't really have all that much to offer this time around, and may have to depend on the vagaries of better weather to redeem itself, when Spring finally rolls around in actual fact, and not just hypothetically because the calendar says so. As a result of Ash Wednesday being so late in February, Lent just about runs right out of March, and Easter is pushed all the way back to April instead. And remember, that's not even Greek Orthodox Easter, which will be even farther back, long after the Easter Bunny would have figured to be back home, snug in his burrow with his furry family around him, and not still hippity-hopping down the Bunny Trail tossing out colored eggs and marshmallow Peeps in every direction, and that's not just a basketful of jelly beans, believe me. Speaking of holy days, as opposed to holidays, I was at church last Sunday, when a parishioner collared me and announced that she had spotted me driving along on Route 287, which is far enough away from our home turf to make me wonder what she was doing there herself. I said that I hoped she hadn't noticed me particularly because my driving was so outlandish, such as weaving in and out of traffic, tailgating, flipping the bird or driving on the shoulder, so that I couldn't help but call attention to myself in the most unwelcome manner. Oh no, she assured me, my driving was just fine at the time, and she only recognized my car from the church parking lot, because of my vanity plates, and of course, it's so very vividly red besides, it tends to calls attention to itself without even trying. Now, I will admit that we can't entirely rule out the possibility that she was just trying to make me feel better, but after all, it is Lent and she was actually in the sanctuary when she said this, so I'd like to think that we can fairly assume that she was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me, God. Meanwhile, in the early March Madness department, there's no way of avoiding the giant display for the upcoming basketball tournament in our local Stop-N-Shop supermarket, try as you might. It's at least 12-feet tall, and built out of specially-designed cracker boxes, so that when it's completely assembled, it spells out "2015" across many rows of boxes, and then there's a somewhat jagged basketball, also fabricated across many rows of boxes - one supposes, with the general idea that you would stock up on snacks and catch up on the college hoops action with all of your friends. Unfortunately, when you come into the store from the other door, you are instead confronted (so to speak) with the back of this enormous contraption, and from that side, what it says very plainly is first the picture of the basketball, and then 2105 for all the world to see. You can believe me when I say this, or you can feel free to go right ahead and enter 2015 into a calculator, and then hold it up to a mirror, and you'll see exactly what I mean. I don't mind saying that it makes a lot less sense from the back (and I ought to know) and I'm thinking that probably even in Las Vegas, they won't give you odds on March Madness brackets in 2105 - and which, thanks to seasonal creep, will probably be played in December by then, I shouldn't wonder. I think the lesson to be learned here is that the first of the assembly instructions should have been to set the whole thing up in front of a wall, so the back wasn't exposed to begin with, and you don't look like you're trying to sell snacks for something that's 90 years in the future. Alternatively, they could just serve a whole bunch of Asian green beer, and invite everyone to party like it's 2105 - or at least until the goats come home. Elle