Not In My Back Yard

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves, perched on the very last day of the month, believe it or not, and staring down both barrels of August with nothing at all to keep those Dog Days at bay. Of course, anyone in the local area can tell you that we've already had plenty of Dog Days this week and still in July - and pretty ugly by all accounts, I can tell you - so if it's planning to be any worse once August rolls around, it's going to have a tough row to hoe there, believe me. We all know that it does no good to complain about the heat in New York in the summer, and in fact, I just saw a news story that they still have piles of snow in Boston that haven't melted since the horrific storms up there over the winter - and which if nothing else should remind us to be grateful for small favors and that things can always be worse. Let's face it, those could be actual dogs instead of just Dog Days, after all. Speaking of notable dates on the local scene, we finally had no choice but to hire another landscaping company to tackle the wholesale disaster that was our yard, after our regular purveyor was laid up and unable to provide this service as per usual. (Actually, he might have been abducted by aliens for all we know, we didn't ask for a note from his doctor, and of course, HIPAA prevents us from checking his medical records.) The new gardeners showed up en masse and went straight to work with their various implements of destruction, and laid waste to the property in a "scorched earth policy" that showed no sentiment or partiality to the vilest weed, noxious vine, or treasured family botanical, regardless. They very quickly had the place looking like actual people lived there, and not the ramshackle hovel over-run with squatters, surrounded by tangled overgrowth of epic proportions, as it had been all too recently. The intrepid crew made short work of everything in their path, and carted off truckloads of debris as if it had never been there to start with. They did not even quail before our menacing masses of rampant alien mutant poison ivy, which I consider a true mark of heroic courage, and they left no remnant of it standing in their wake. [Note to Justice Department: Their rigorous ministrations entirely failed to uncover any trace of Jimmy Hoffa or Judge Crater, alas.] My favorite part was when I spotted something newly exposed in what used to be the wild and woolly ivy patch, and when I went to investigate, it turned out to be a newspaper that we had never collected from the yard and taken into the house. From the middle of June, mind you, so that tells you something right there. And speaking of long-missing items, it reminds me of when I was getting ready for vacation, which is not technically packing, because most of my camping supplies stay packed all year long, and just have to be carried out to the car at the appropriate time. There are supposed to be 3 beach towels in my beach bag, but for some odd reason, there were only 2 of them, and the third one was nowhere to be found. I had no reason to need a beach towel aside from camping, and I tore the place apart looking for that elusive third one, going nuts in the process, and could not imagine where it could possibly be, if not with all the rest of the camping supplies as it should be. I finally gave it up as a lost cause, and dug out an old ratty torn spare beach towel to take its place, so at least we would have something. This year, Bill decided to buy a new beach chair to replace the old uncomfortable one that he had, so I figured I would take the old one out of the camping supplies if we weren't going to use it. I noticed that it had an interesting feature built right into it, that there was a handy storage pouch on the back, for whatever you might want to carry with you, or have within reach while enjoying yourself at the beach or pool. Obviously, I had forgotten all about it, if I ever knew about it in the first place, but when I looked inside - surprise! - here was the missing 3rd beach towel, all clean and neatly folded up, and just ready to be pressed into service as the occasion might demand. Did I laugh! Also on the camping front, their Wednesday night movie of the week this year was "Ice Age: Continental Drift," although alert readers may recall that Wednesday night was replete with thunder and lightning from distant storms, so I'm thinking that might have been more than a little distracting to the viewing public at the time. My plan for Wednesday was dinner at what used to be a local pizza place in a shopping center on Route 25A - although now they call themselves "Le Bistro" and fancy themselves a rather more upscale eatery with pretentious cuisine and signature specialties. Frankly, I liked them better when they were just a neighborhood pizza parlor, and their chattering sports TV at least kept me up-to-date on what was happening with the local sports teams while I was out in the woods. Now, their regular pizza seemed soggy and dense, and I even uttered words that I never thought anyone would hear pass my lips: "Too much cheese." I went back on Friday for a slice of Sicilian, and it was not much better - and their calzones, which are the size of pillows, I wouldn't dare attempt to consume all by myself. In a bizarre twist, it turns out to be a chain - Bill and I saw another one just like it on Saturday in Middle Island on our way home. And finally, speaking of movies reminds me that I was checking on the credits for "Inside Out," the animated feature that Bill and I had seen recently, and tucked away in the labyrinths of the voluminous voice cast, I stumbled across Jan Rabson, who is one of three famous people that I know from my high school graduating class. Of course, this is probably only to be expected, since there were over a thousand students in my grade, so for 0.03% of them to become famous is most likely par for the course, as these things go. It's interesting that among your own contemporaries who do become well-known, they are never the ones that you would immediately think of, while the high school go-getters that everyone expected great things from, drop out of sight and are never heard from again. Besides Jan, who hobnobs with Hollywood luminaries, there was Rich Mauti who starred as a wide receiver for the New Orleans Saints, and Steve Bach, who had a successful solo career in jazz, and is now serving as Artistic Director for Cirque du Soleil, of all things. Like the other 99.97% of my classmates, I will freely admit that I have no claim to fame, and years from now, thundering herds of strangers will not be insisting that they went to school with me. It's probably just as well, but on the other hand, if the darned landscapers had actually dug up Jimmy Hoffa or Judge Crater in our rampant alien mutant poison ivy, well, that would have been a different story entirely, I dare say. Elle

As Good As It Gets

Hello World, I think we can all agree that the good news is that I have returned safe and sound from a week away in Vacation Land, all in one piece, and none the worse for wear, for the most part. I seemed to pick up something of a summer cold in my travels, but I sounded much worse than I felt, and it really didn't slow me down much. Interestingly, I noticed there was no "Full to capacity" sign on Saturday when we arrived at the park, and the campground appeared all booked up, but I spotted it on Sunday instead, when everyone was leaving, and when we came back from the beach later in the day, the place was a ghost town. Even better than the good news, we were happy to discover (and here I'm thinking, delirious would not be too strong a term) the new and improved concession stand at the beach, who are calling themselves Calypso on the Sound, from our friends at Innovative Concessions (and please do go check them out and LIKE them on FaceBook at https://www.facebook.com/wildwoodconcessions) where they tell me they serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner including lobster and prime rib, and not to mention, ice cold beer, of all things. Their slogan is "It's Worth The Walk," but anyone who's ever trudged up that long and steep hill at Wildwood beach can tell you there's just no way that could possibly be true, and I ought to know. They have also staked claim to a separate area on the boardwalk that they use for catering, believe it or not - although how they manage to get their patrons back up that darned hill, in the dark, after dinner, and ice cold beer, is a mystery to me, I'm sure. They have a very wide-ranging snack bar at the beach with a nice gift shop, plus another snack bar in the picnic area, and also the Camp Store at the old Ranger Station to round things out. For us, the best news was finally having cheese fries again after 3 years, and while I wouldn't say it was worth the wait (or worth the walk) it was all that we could have hoped for, after we had just about given up hope. This year was the easiest yet to spot the obvious spy site, because it was right next to mine at C-34. It sported a derelict pop-up trailer that appeared to be abandoned, with all the windows left open and no signs of life, or any vehicle, for 2 days. Somehow it mysteriously disappeared on Tuesday when I was at the beach, and I have no idea how, but I'm not going to check with the CIA and find out. Also in the neighborhood, there was a lively crowd of young French people taking up 2 sites across from me, who must have figured that the road was their personal driveway, so when they got to their site, they just parked in the street, thanks not. They sent an envoy over at one point, and I'm not exactly sure what I thought they were going to ask for, but I admit I wasn't expecting the youngest one to pop up and say, "Do you have fire?" At first I thought they wanted some of my firewood (as if I would part with any of my hard-earned firewood without a fight!) but one of his cohorts was making a hand gesture like a cigarette lighter, so I gave them my box of kitchen matches. Trying to explain that these were safety matches and would only work by striking them on the box may have been a hopeless endeavor, and for all I know, they may have given up the whole thing as a lost cause. I expect the headlines to read: "Crazy American Woman Gives Trick Matches to French Tourists as a Prank - Creates International Incident." Speaking of pranks, over the winter they apparently tore down what us old-timers would refer to as "the New Roundy," and completely rebuilt it as what they describe as a "Family Restroom." I found it hugely entertaining, although that may have been inadvertent on their part. It's a beautiful building with a very decorative interior that would remind you of a day spa. There are 6 unisex shower rooms, plus another 2 that are handicap-accessible. The push-button showers have warm water that is not too hot, and some gracious amenities - such as a bench, mirror, shelf, and soap dish - that have never been seen by the camping community up until now. I can't forget to mention the super-charged Dyson "Let's Blow Your Hands Off" automatic dryers, which are not for the faint-hearted. For energy efficiency, there are motion sensor lights that turn on when someone goes in to shower, and then go off again when it doesn't detect anyone still in there. Unfortunately they are the only light, there's no windows or skylights for natural light to come in, so it's pitch dark otherwise. This becomes a problem when the motion sensor decides that you have finished what you were doing and left the premises (even if you're still standing there gamely washing, and full of soap) and it shuts the light off on you so you're stuck showering in the dark. This happened so many times during my first shower there, I figured that I could out-smart (or rather, out-dumb) it, by propping open the door to the common area, and getting some light in from there. It turned out the joke was on me because the common area also has motion detector lights that only come on when someone is in there, so after a while, they go out as well, and then you have no light coming from anywhere at all. I had no choice but to bring my own lantern from the campsite and set it on the bench, so at least I could still see what I was doing, after the sensor lights decided I had left already. Personally, I think that if you're still there pushing the shower button, it should realize that someone is still in there, but apparently it's more focused on energy efficiency than any sort of logic. I left the beach early on Tuesday due to bad weather, and got stuck inside the Family Restroom for a pelting rain storm, where it just came down in sheets, so that you couldn't even see the road outside the door. It was better to be inside anyway, nice and dry, although I knew that everything on the clothesline would be completely drenched. I had forgotten how bad it floods at the park when it pours like that - all of the intersections, gullies, and low-lying campsites are underwater, and it has no place to drain off, so you just have to wait it out until it eventually evaporates. I splashed back to the campsite through mud puddles, and found that I was dirtier when I got back to the tent than when I started. Also the rain fly had collapsed because the stakes had pulled right out of the wet ground, thanks not, which didn't surprise me because it was on thin ice to start with. I added a second set of bungee cords to the corner poles, which made it a lot more stable, but had the unwanted effect of making it impossible to get around in the site, so I had to walk in the woods to get to the other side of the tent. Also on Tuesday, I went to CVS after dinner, turned out of their parking lot, and the park pass blew right out of the car window and out onto the street. I had to chase it down Route 25A and snatch it back, or I wouldn't be able to get back into the park. Of course, the punch line to the story was that not one single solitary person checked my park pass all the rest of the week that I was there, after I took my life in my hands dodging traffic on the highway to get it back into the car. I always bring peanuts and trail mix, which were a big hit with the blue jays and grackles, and occasional squirrel, but I didn't see a chipmunk until Thursday. I also stumbled upon (literally) unmistakable signs of moles around my fire bucket, by their obvious network of tunnels through the soft sandy soil in that area. Rounding out our furry and feathered friends, I had a woodpecker and flicker show up for peanuts, as well as a cardinal, which I have never seen out there before. On the other hand, the 7:00 PM deer in E Section turned up right on time, so no surprises there. Speaking of animals, my next encounter with my new French neighbors was when a gaggle of them accosted me on the street, all aflutter, and apparently keeping a list of the wildlife they had spotted in their travels. They wanted my help translating the critters into English, which we attempted to accomplish using a combination of hand gestures, bad high school French, charades, and stick figure drawings, with mixed results. I was able to help them with rabbit, deer, squirrel and duck, but when they very earnestly described a porcupine to me (!!!) it really made me wonder what on earth they had actually seen, that they somehow mistook for a porcupine instead - and which I can assure you has never been present at Wildwood State Park, and doubtless never will be, I dare say. On Wednesday night there were bad storms somewhere, although not at the park, and the sights and sounds of thunder and lightning coming from Connecticut were amazing to behold. There were also gale force winds overnight (possibly some residual effects from Tropical Storm Claudette) with the temperature hovering just below 60 degrees, which feels even colder when you're in a tent, believe me. I already learned my lesson about that years ago, and glad to have a comforter and fleece jacket with me, for just such an eventuality. I hurried to the beach Thursday morning to see the waves - not Jones Beach-size waves maybe, but still HUGE for Wildwood, and I have the video to prove it. At high tide, the lifeguard chair was in the water, with the lifeguards standing on the boardwalk instead. At the time it didn't matter, since I was the only (insane) person braving the waves anyway, and I was having too much fun to drown. Waves are always a rarity, and an unusual treat for my vacation, because it's ordinarily flat as a table out there. There were also exceptionally high tides overnight, as evidenced by the seaweed line all the way up to the foot of the bluffs, well above normal. It must have uncovered some enticing stuff by all accounts, since I spotted a catbird, goldfinch, and chipmunk, of all things, all scavenging in the same bushy outcropping behind the boardwalk, and glad of their plunder, by the look of it. Bill came back on Saturday to help me pack up, and a more welcome sight would be hard to come by, I can tell you that. It sprinkled a bit in the morning, but cleared up enough for us to enjoy one more lovely day at the beach, and those cheese fries were all that and more. On the way home, we stopped at Denny's in Centereach for dinner, and they heard no complaints from us, believe me. After a week away, the new kittens fled from the sight of me in abject terror, and even the cats who seemed to vaguely remember me, were pretty sure that they didn't like me. It only took a week to do most of my camping laundry, and get everything packed safely away for another year. Although the way those cheese fries have been calling my name, it might be a whole lot sooner than that, I shouldn't wonder! Elle

Show Stopper

Hello World, Happy happy, joy joy! That may not be true of absolutely everybody out there in the wide world, but as for myself, I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow, and I can't wait! Last year at this time, I wasn't working, so I was basically just taking a break from job hunting - but now that I've been doing actual temp work since November, it's a great feeling to look forward to a whole week off, full of sand and surf, sun by day and campfires by night, and don't spare the marshmallows, my good man! Usually, I would take the Friday off from work before I leave, so I can pack everything into the car, but I couldn't do that at my temp job and still get paid, so I ended up packing the car last Saturday, and just driving around with 2 tents, my suitcase, fire bucket, sleeping bag, extra tent poles, and 250 pounds of firewood all week, thanks not. On Wednesday when it was raining, I tried to stop short, and instead slid right through the intersection through sheer momentum itself. It's a good thing nobody got in my way, or we'd still be picking up tent stakes from every which where, I dare say. Of course, last Saturday was Independence Day, and you can be sure that The Flag Brigade was hard at work, flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, and doing a heck of a job at it, if I do say so myself. The weather was somewhat changeable all day, but we managed to hold off the rain for the most part, so Old Glory was not in danger of getting soaked, on top of everything else, and the environs were much improved with the patriotic hues of the star-spangled banners hanging from the ramparts, as it were. Now, alert readers may be wondering - and well might they wonder, indeed - if July 4th has come and gone, whatever became of the fabled Round Hill Highland Games of lore and legend, where we go every year, and in fact, often reschedule my vacation so as to avoid a conflict with them? Well, wonder no more, because I'm sure that the Scottish games went off without a hitch at Norwalk's scenic Cranbury Park, as they do every year, but we took a pass on them this time around. On the same day as the games we usually go to, there was also the Connecticut Irish Festival at North Haven Fairgrounds, and our friends invited us to join them there instead, as a change of pace, and we were glad to oblige. They describe themselves as a "Feis and Agricultural Fair," although they had no agricultural exhibits on Saturday, and I also couldn't find any mention of them in the program for Saturday or Sunday. Mostly it seemed to be an entertainment event, with lots of live music, Irish step dancing competitions, traditional Irish folk music, and plenty of beer. There was also some youth soccer taking place on a separate field, and an exhibition hall with vendors selling various Celtic products, as well as other assorted merchandise, Gaelic or not. It was all interesting to us, since we had never been to one before, and even better was that they gave everyone a souvenir T-shirt just for showing up. The weather was chilly and sprinkling, but it was still a fun day, and the best part was stopping for dinner at Denny's in West Haven on the way home. So we traded in our "Scots wha hae" for "Erin go bragh" this year, and our bagpipes for fiddles, but I can tell you that Denny's tasted just as delicious, regardless. Yum! And speaking of entertainment, it isn't often that you can see a certified legend up close and personal, so when the opportunity arose to catch the one and only Stephen Stills (late of Crosby, Stills & Nash, plus numerous other bands) and practically on our doorstep, we dropped everything and went. This was another show at The City Winery on Varick Street in New York City, an intimate venue famous for its live music and unique cuisine, and not to mention, they actually make their own wine right on the premises, believe it or not. We availed ourselves of their signature French fries and flatbread, and they did not disappoint. Also not disappointed, the small but enthusiastic crowd went wild for Stephen Stills at every turn, although I found the show took a while to get off the ground, starting off with a bunch of odd, arcane, or unknown songs that I would have thought would be impossible for someone with his long history of solid-gold hits. The opening acoustic set seemed a strange melange of unusual choices and offbeat anecdotes, and wrapped up surprisingly with a rousing version of "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," with the audience providing the David Crosby part on melody, and Stills filling in on the harmony. Things definitely picked up after a long intermission, the musicians went electric, and we settled in for a string of well-known tunes, all the way back from the Buffalo Springfield era, and everything else right on up from there, with the whole toe-tapping, finger-snapping, sing-along vibe carrying everybody right along with it. Not so fast! Our friends decided that they had to make an early exit and head for home, so we had no choice but to skulk out along with them, and arguably missed the best part of the show that was still yet to come, alas. But it was still a night to remember, or at least half a night, and the moral of the story is that next time we join friends for a concert, first we're going to find out when their bedtime is. In other local news, our intrepid newspaper, The Journal News (their motto: "Nooz R Wee") recently ran a front-page story about a development of affordable housing being proposed for downtown Chappaqua, of all places. Columnist and tax expert David McKay Wilson, who knows better, explained that the approval of an emergency sidewalk was what he described as "a crucial lynchpin in the plan." Yikes! (That rustling sound you hear is hundreds of years of editors all spinning in their graves, and who can blame them?) Our friends at the Grammarist web site insist that "lynchpin" is a perfectly acceptable variant of "linchpin" in the United Kingdom, but its use in a heavily diverse urban metropolis demonstrates a gross insensitivity that is offensive in its obliviousness. Meanwhile, in other oblivious non-news, I couldn't help but notice the following when I was looking up the history of the Mars Company (and please feel free to go right ahead to www.mars.com and see for yourself) and stumbled upon this curious tidbit, apparently presented without a hint of irony: ======================== In 1902, Frank C. Mars marries Ethel G. Kissack, a schoolteacher, and in 1904, Forrest Edward Mars Sr. is born in Wadena, Minnesota. ========================= Gee, I sure hope not! In order to be Forrest Edward Mars Sr., this newborn would have to already have a son named Forrest Edward Mars Jr., and here I'm thinking, this would have come as a gigantic surprise to poor Ethel G. Kissack, if nobody else. (That moaning sound that you hear means that hundreds of years of editors have finally stopped spinning in their graves, and are now wailing and gnashing their teeth instead, and once again, no one could blame them a bit.) At this point, I'm thinking that we can all agree to take a page out of the Stephen Stills playbook, and quit while we're ahead. After all, half a baby daddy is still better than half a lynchpin, no matter how you slice it, and in that special Purgatory reserved for editors, the devil's in the details. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't - Erin Go Bragh

It's The Same Old Song

Hello World, Happy July 4th weekend! I hope that everyone will take advantage of the long holiday weekend to declare their independence from boredom, drudgery, and all incarnations of the "same-old, same-old," whatever that may be. Please feel free to blithely ignore The Holiday Police, and enjoy a star-spangled 4th in any way that seems most optimal for you - and it goes without saying, don't spare the parades, fireworks, and barbecues, by George! With actual Independence Day falling on a Saturday this year, many businesses elected to close on Friday instead. I admit that it came as a somewhat unwelcome surprise to find that it was not considered a holiday at the temp job where I'm working now, and the heck with The Founding Fathers. On the other hand, the bank next to our office took 2 days, and a convoy of trucks and cranes, to change the name on top of a 7-story building, which in spite of being extremely diverting, was met with universal disinterest by the locals. When I worked at the hospital, exactly this sort of thing would have shut the whole place down for the duration, with 1600 people all leaving their posts to stand out in the parking lot and gawk. Apparently entertainment is in the eye of the beholder, and what we have here is obviously a tough crowd. Speaking of crowds, it was last Friday that we joined friends of ours, and a motley assortment of other geezers, to watch The Midtown Men at the NYCB Theater in the wilds of Westbury on Long Island. This venue used to be widely known as The Westbury Music Fair when I was growing up in the area, and in fact, I actually saw the Bee Gees there (before their disco days) as well as Johnny Mathis. (Now there's a guy who could flat-out sing, and no joke.) For anyone not familiar with the group (and please do go right ahead and visit their web site at www.themidtownmen.com and see for yourself) The Midtown Men are 4 talented gentlemen who met while performing in the Broadway cast of "The Jersey Boys," and then decided to strike out on their own, lovingly presenting their favorite songs from the 1960's, not only by The Four Seasons, but a wide range of other artists as well. Their show features dozens of these timeless classics, happily revisited with strong harmonies and infectious enthusiasm, that quickly had the rapt audience tapping their feet and singing along. It must also be said that their backup band is a show all its own, and worth the trip all by itself. Because the theater is small and "in the round" (although only 3/4 on this occasion) there are no bad seats, and if this wasn't "up close and personal" enough for anyone, they actually arranged a "Meet & Greet" in the lobby with the singers after the show. So for anybody like me who can't get enough of 50-year-old music, please run, don't walk, to the ticket office if The Midtown Men play anywhere near you, and get ready to party like it's 1965! Meanwhile on the ecclesiastical scene, our local newspaper ran a story about The Most Holy Trinity Roman Catholic Church in Yonkers, and its storied history from 1895 to the present. Fearless columnist Phil Reisman, who knows better, described the impressive dimensions of the structure, and its acoustical features, such that its "walls can reverberate ... a light cough from the entrance to the knave." Ouch! Admittedly, "nave" is an uncommon word with only narrowly specific utility, and far from the general parlance - but as they used to say back in those halcyon days of yore with actual editors, all the more reason to look it up and be absolutely sure that you've got ahold of the right word, and not just go off half-cocked with any old guess, making a fool (or a knave) out of yourself in the process. And while we're on the topic of people who should know better, this would become abundantly clear if you go to the web site of our friends at the Department of Housing and Buildings, also in the fine upstanding City of Yonkers, and download a sign application form from them, or as many as you might have need of. Naturally the form has a place for your name and address, as well as the location of your proposed sign, and categories for the sign of your choice, such as ground, pole-mounted, wall, awning, or what they refer to as "verticle." Inasmuch as "verticle" is not a word - at least not in English anywhere in this galaxy - one can only assume that they meant "vertical" instead, and you would think that even the most rudimentary spell-checker on their web site would have alerted them to this mistake. Honestly, sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or cry, and that's a plain fact. Anyone who knows me can tell you that when it comes to comic book superheroes, IMAX 3-D is the only way to go. So when "Avengers: Age of Ultron" came out, off we went. After all, we had seen the first Avengers movie and liked it more than we expected, so this was a no-brainer. Like all action films nowadays, it was long, noisy, hectic, overwhelming, confusing, often intense, and occasionally surreal. One problem is that the Avengers franchise is already so over-populated (Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Hulk, Iron Man, Thor, War Machine, Nick Fury and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D.) and then add in four more characters in one fell swoop, it just becomes impossible to tell any sort of coherent story, while giving each one the attention they deserve. (Poor embattled Loki, Thor's devious half-brother, didn't make it into the final version at all, and his contributions to the effort, whatever they might have been, were left on the proverbial cutting room floor, alas.) This seemed more grim than the first one, where the attempts at humor failed to relieve the gloom, and the glimpses of genuine humanity were more bittersweet than heartwarming. Perhaps that's why this exchange stood out in contrast, like a frothy bubble on a dingy sponge. After one of their epic battles, Dr. Bruce Banner is filled with remorse over whatever damage may have been inflicted by his uncontrollable alter ego, the Hulk, so Black Widow asks Thor for an assessment of how the Hulk was invaluable to their success. Eager to oblige, Thor cheerfully announces: "The gates of Hell are filled with the screams of his victims!" At this, Dr Banner groans and holds his head in his hands, while Black Widow glares at the hammer-wielding lummox, with a withering look that cannot be misinterpreted. Realizing his error, Thor quickly backtracks, and takes another valiant stab at it: "But not the screams of the dead, of course. No, no ... wounded screams ... mainly whimpering, a great deal of complaining, and tales of sprained deltoids and ... gout." Now, that's more like it! Alert readers may recall that we have lately become proud, if unexpected, parents of two sets of kittens born under our front porch: a trio of solid black boys, and a pair of gray striped lasses with white underparts. Like all strays, when we first manhandled them inside (amid much protest and violent outbursts, I don't mind saying) they were traumatized at the very idea, and terrified at the sight of us, even at a distance. We could clear a room just by putting our head inside a door, and at the sound of our approaching footsteps, they would all flee in every direction. Well, it's been enough time now, and they've all gotten big enough, not to mention comfortable, that they now take us entirely for granted, like some well-meaning but inept staff that has been assigned to attend to their every need. Now if you walk into a room, you basically have to wade through a sea of fur on every side, carefully stepping over, around, or across lounging felines who could not possibly be bothered to get out of your way, thanks not. They will not budge, no matter what you do, and even worse on the stairs, where they spread out along an entire step, leaving you no alternative but to jump over two steps to get around them - regardless of whether your hands are full, and you're just as likely to break your neck as otherwise. I finally said to Bill that there's certain advantages to having cats that are afraid of you, and at least can be counted on to get out from under your feet, rather than being a public hazard to life and limb at every turn. But it reminds me that I recently picked up a package of our cats' favorite treats, Temptations by Whiskas, and was more surprised than anybody to find that they are produced by a division of MARS, the confectionery giant of international renown for their Mars bars, Snickers, Milky Way, Three Musketeers, and of course, those ubiquitous M&M's that melt in your mouth and not in your hand. In what can only be described as a bizarre twist of fate, their competitor in the pet food aisle, Purina, is manufactured by Nestle, another international confectionery giant, famous for their Butterfinger, KitKat, Crunch, Smarties, and above all, their iconic Toll House Morsels. Here I'm thinking, it's no wonder that they love this cat food so much - it's essentially junk food for your pets! It's already hard enough to keep the kitties away from my sweets as it is, and it's only a matter of time before these far-reaching corporate behemoths decide to add tuna or bacon flavors to their candies, and then all bets are off. Elle