Coin Toss

Hello World, Merry Christmas! There's no denying that the big day has well and truly arrived on our collective doorstep (or chimney hearth, as the case may be) with all the candy canes, sleigh bells, sugar plums, and boughs of holly that anybody could ever want - and not to mention, candles in the window and carols at the spinet, I shouldn't wonder. From this point, there's not too many days left until the end of the year, when we kick 2015 to the curb at long last, and make a clean sweep of things to usher in 2016 in fine style. Speaking of clean sweeps, at the temporary job where I am now, one of our janitors recently left for greener pastures elsewhere, as it were, with the result being that we had only one person to take care of 3 buildings, 4 parking lots, 60 tenants, and innumerable flowers, trees and shrubs of all types. The lone worker still here was doing a heroic job keeping everything neat, watered, illuminated, and flushing, but it's true that in the real estate office itself, it was starting to look a bit neglected, as I didn't have the heart to ask him to clean our little home suite home, when there was so much else for just one person to do. I'm prepared for the likelihood that nobody in their right mind would believe this, but it finally got so bad that I actually broke out the upright, and vacuumed the place myself, of all things. (!!!) Now, anyone who knows me, if they had seen that, would have been on the phone to the FBI's UFO Task Force at a shot, and had me picked up on suspicion of being taken over by alien pods from some weird Ricochet-Presto-Change-o Planet in the Bizarro Universe, where everything is the opposite of what it should be. I honestly don't know what came over me, that I was somehow channeling the spirit of the irrepressible Hazel from the old comic pages and TV show, and it certainly left our old friends the dinosaurs and me all shaking our heads - and if we were cartoon characters, you would hear the sound of loose coins rattling around in a metal can, and see question marks floating over top of us. Failing any other logical explanation, I'm considering it an early Christmas present to my employers, and leave it at that. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, anyone? And while we're in the holiday spirit, at church we received a handout with information about the real Saint Nicholas, a 4th century Christian saint and Bishop of Myra (in modern-day Turkey) who was renowned for his compassion and generosity. Apparently in his most famous exploit, he was moved by the plight of a poor man with three daughters, for whom he could not provide a suitable dowry so they could be properly married, and without which, they would have been subjected to a life of hardship and prejudice - something at that time, might easily amount to a fate worse than death. The good saint was determined to help, but too modest to do so publicly (or embarrass them by accepting charity) so he is reputed to have done any or all of the following scenarios, all under cover of darkness: 1) he threw 3 purses filled with gold coins through the window, one for each daughter; or 2) he threw one coin-filled purse through the window each night for 3 consecutive nights; or 3) he threw one coin-filled purse through the window over the course of 3 years, as each daughter came of age; [ Both #2 and #3 have the related corollary that the grateful father lays in wait to meet the mysterious benefactor, while the humble Nicholas avers that it is not he, but God who deserves thanks. ] 4) with the father on the lookout after the first two purses, Nicholas drops the third one down the chimney instead; or 5) the same as #4, but with the added twist that the last daughter had washed her stockings and left them in the fireplace to dry, and the purse fell down the chimney and landed in the stocking. Well, I don't mind saying that this cock-and-bull story has all the earmarks of "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" written all over it, as far as reality and legend and Grade A hogwash is concerned, and no amount of ecclesiastical white-washing is going to turn this sow's ear into a silk purse, even by the longest leap of faith, for heaven's sake. (In fact, it reminds me of nothing so much as the poor ill-fated Rangers, who first win a bunch of games they should lose, then lose a bunch of games in dismal fashion - prompting beat writer Rick Carpiniello to decry what he described as their "well-documented lipstick-on-a-pig record of 17-6-2." Lipstick on a pig, indeed!) And mind you, this is an actual real person we're talking about here, not some fictionalized figment of everyone's over-active imagination, and you would think that the facts of the matter would have long since been nailed down with pinpoint accuracy. Heck, if they made him a saint without actually knowing what he did, let's face it, he could have easily been up to all sorts of unsavory skullduggery and underhanded shenanigans, instead of saving souls and performing miracles, and the Beatification Committee would have been none the wiser, obviously. This is a classic case of what I would call "nobody minding the store," and somewhere off in the great beyond, Liberty Valance is having a big fat laugh, I'm sure. Of course, everyone knows that "safety first" is my watchword, and I'm always happy to see increased vigilance and precautions being implemented, for the improvement of public safety. So I certainly hail Con Edison's efforts to alert residents to the dangers of gas leaks, by printing what they must have considered helpful pictographs for the situation at hand, on the outside of their billing envelopes, for all the world to see. They're very simple designs, perhaps a little too simple for the point they're trying to get across. It all starts out on the left with a small ground fire, for some reason, followed by a non-specific person who looks like a crossing guard with a sash or something. The next picture looks like someone trying to catch a train, and the last one seems to be someone lifting weights, or maybe eating a sandwich, or waving - it's really too indistinct to be able to tell what exactly is going on there. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, it utterly fails the first test of pictographs, since you basically have no idea of what they're trying to convey, and if this was some kind of emergency, I hate to tell them that everybody would have long since died in the meantime, while trying to puzzle out the hidden messages behind the diagrams, and thanks ever so much not. While I applaud their attempts at heightening awareness to the hazards, I would still have to say that there's plenty of room for improvement in the actual application of their warnings. And speaking of room for improvement, alert readers of our local newspaper would have spotted a small story tucked in the corner of the front page, with the understated headline of: "Yonkers Fires Jailed Teacher," and nothing at all blatant about it. I'm no expert in criminal investigations, and I don't even play one on television, but it seems to me that every time there's some kerfuffle with a teacher, it's the same old typical suburban brouhaha, generally over something vague and spurious, like allegations of suspected downloaded pornography on personal computers or the like - with a firestorm of accusations back and forth, but no real evidence one way or another, that eventually just collapses under the sheer weight of acrimony and bad publicity, all the while accomplishing nothing. Anyway, the article goes on to explain: "The city Board of Education fired a teacher last week, after he began a 22-year prison sentence for kidnapping." (!!!) Well, that's a whole different kettle of fish right there, and not to mention, a horse of a different color, and that's not just a load of orange jumpsuits, believe me. I certainly didn't see that one coming, and it was a far cry from the usual "he said, she said" sort of overblown melodrama that the media thrives on. I think my favorite part of the story is that Yonkers didn't go flying off the handle and fire the guy when he was first accused of kidnapping, or even rush in wildly to fire him when he was arrested on this kidnapping charge, or even yet still, go ahead and fire his sorry butt when he was actually convicted of kidnapping after all that. It would be captious to fault the Board of Education for being willing to give their teachers the benefit of the doubt, and the belief in second chances, so they didn't actually fire this thug until after he had already started serving his sentence for the crime. Frankly, at this rate, I'm surprised that they didn't agree to hold his job for 22 years, until he pays his debt to society and gets out of prison in 2037. After all, it's only kidnapping, for crying out loud, it's not like it's computer porn or anything. Honestly, you just can't make this stuff up. Unless you're Saint Nicholas of Myra, that is, and then all bets are off. Elle

Blue Christmas

Hello World, Happy (almost) Winter Solstice! I'm sure that all of you Druids out there (and the dinosaurs and I know who you are) must be delirious at the prospect of greeting the shortest day in the year on Monday, with all of the pomp and circumstance, rituals and trappings of yesteryear, just as we used to do it way back in the ancient days from time immemorial. The good news is that from that day forward, the days start to become incrementally longer, so even though it feels like the deep dark bleak days of interminable winter, actually we're inching closer to spring all the time, thank heaven. It's also true that the last Sunday in Advent is already upon us, which seems early, probably because Christmas this year is on a Friday, almost a whole week after the 4th Sunday in Advent. So if your Advent calendar seems to be getting a little ahead of itself this time around, don't blame it on the Druids. Speaking of Sundays in Advent, we can't let last week come and go without a mention of Lessons & Carols at church, which they now call their Christmas Carols Sing-Along in order to be politically correct, one supposes, but is still pretty much the same old thing as it always was, regardless of the name change. There were the usual Bible readings about the Nativity story, and favorite hymns of the season, plus some interesting classical pieces from the choir and special musicians trotted out for the occasion, and all very well received by the appreciative audience, and I ought to know. I had strong-armed a fellow congregant into joining me on a duet of "The Star Carol," which turned out to be more of a baptism of fire than she expected, since she not only had never heard it before, but we also had no time to rehearse, and then the organist changed her part at the last minute, on top of everything else. But she was game, I'll give her that, and slogged through it in spite of it all, and the whole thing certainly didn't come out nearly as badly as might be expected, especially under the circumstances. Of course, as these things go, Divine Intervention cannot be ruled out, and in fact, might be the only explanation after all. In other holiday news, it was last Saturday that Bill and I went back to the venerable VFW Post nearby to pick out a Christmas tree, just as his family has done for generations, and still going strong to this day. Anyone in the local area at the time could tell you that it was inexplicably 70 degrees and sunny, with throngs of people outside in shorts and tank tops, like this was December in the Florida Keys, instead of the suburbs right outside the town so nice, they named it twice. We decided to go out early and beat the crowds, and I said to Bill that I had my flip-flops and suntan lotion, so I was all set. The news had been awash with horror stories about tree shortages and high prices, due to severe droughts where the trees are collected - but we found a very appealing selection to choose from, that still didn't break the bank, as it were. There were plenty of giant behemoths of the forests that made us swoon with delight, but we knew we had to reluctantly pass them by, or cut a hole in the side of the house just to fit them inside, alas. So we turned our attention to the more reasonably sized offerings, and settled on one that had a nice shape, although shorter than we preferred. As so often happens, when we brought it home and stood it up in the stand, the tree just barely cleared the ceiling with room for the angel at the top, so we could not have picked out a more perfect height if we tried. On the feline front, the new cats, for whom Christmas last year was an exciting novelty, greeted this botanical wonder in the living room with their signature indifference, that was so pervasive even eggnog was no proof against it - and that stuff is usually pretty popular with the kitty contingent at our house, I can tell you that. But their opinion notwithstanding, the tree is a thing of beauty and a sight to behold, and of course, comes complete with its own heavenly fragrance that makes the yuletide worthwhile, if for nothing else. Some eggnog and holiday music rounded out the perfect excursion back and forth through O Tannenbaum Land, although admittedly, the weather being what it was, it seemed more like a trip to Palm Springs instead. Say, isn't that Santa Claus in those Foster Grants? Meanwhile at work, the holly jolly season continues apace, and we already received some nice treats from our vendors, and we did not look askance at them, I can assure you. There were also plenty of holiday cards from tenants and vendors alike, and naturally, since everyone wants to be politically correct nowadays, not one of them actually mentions Christmas, or exhibits any colors of red or green, traditional to the occasion. So even from a distance, anyone could tell that this welter of cards had become a veritable surging sea of blue on the credenza, as if we were busy celebrating Greek Independence Day, or coming out in support of both sides in a Finland-Somalia soccer match. I don't know when blue became the universal non-partisan, unspecific, neutral, and anti-adversarial agreed-upon hue for the whole ho-ho-ho extravaganza, but it has certainly taken off in spades (like a bolt out of the blue, one might even say) which is probably just as well, because I can imagine that it can only be replaced now by something much, much worse, like neon yellow or electric purple, and that's not just the fruitcake talking, believe me. And speaking of holiday elements that have missed the mark, and often woefully so, it can't be denied that in the realm of modern lawn ornaments, there is often much more bad than good, and it is rife with potential disasters of all descriptions. Of course, we've all seen the giant inflatable decorations, ranging from your average happy Santa or snowman, all the way to Homer Simpson and Darth Vader, and just about everything in between - including penguins, airplanes, elves, snow-globes, teddy bears, carousels, the Grinch, trains, and Snoopy riding a motorcycle, of all things. I have a pretty wide tolerance for the personal quirks of holiday decorations, and far be it from me to rain (or rather, snow) on anyone's parade, if their dubious choices make me squirm rather than squeal with delight. But passing by one property on the way home from work last week, I couldn't help but notice that among their assorted inflatable assembly was a blow-up Nativity scene, that I thought looked just so ridiculous, and seemed so very wrong on so many levels, that I simply couldn't countenance it in any way at all. In fact, it looked for all the world like The Holy Family made out of marshmallows as a Sunday School project, which is an idea whose time has not come, and may never come, I shouldn't wonder. On the other hand, in a gambol around the neighborhood recently, I happened upon an exquisite Nativity in one of the neighbors' yards that was entirely hand-carved out of wood, and which for the size of it must have been quite an undertaking, and a labor of love, and was so outstanding and extraordinary that it needed no exaggeration from me, that's for sure. Of course, at the time when I saw it, everyone around the manger was wearing sunglasses and swimsuits, but hey, as it says in the Bible, this too shall pass. Elle

Double Speak

Hello World, Happy Hanukkah! For everyone out there in the wide world celebrating the Festival of Lights, which began on Sunday, I hope that your holiday was not only "de-light-ful," but also delicious and de-lovely, to paraphrase the late and lamented Ira Gershwin. One positive aspect of the rock-solid Christmas lollapalooza is that it stands resolutely firm on the same day in December every year, no matter what. Whereas Hanukkah, like Easter, is more of a slippery character, skittering around from one part of the month to another like a boxful of puppies chasing a ball, so you never know where it's going to turn up next. Sometimes it's early like this year, while other times, it's closer to Christmas - but let's face it, it's always welcome, whenever it chooses to shine its sparkly lights, so break out those dreidels and latkes, and pull out all the stops like a fiddler on the roof. Hava nagila, anyone? Speaking of seasonal observances, two Sundays in Advent are already in the books, as it were, so you know there's no slowing down that yuletide juggernaut at this point, try as you might. It goes without saying that the 25th will be here before we know it, and every mouse that wasn't stirring, or every sugar plum that wasn't dancing already, will suddenly be upon us like a basketful of kittens pouncing on a ball of yarn. Not wasting any time, and right on schedule for holiday gift-giving, apparently Pope Francis has released a music CD (I kid you not) called "Wake Up!" which featured prominently in the USA Life section of our local newspaper recently. The dinosaurs, Grammar Police, assorted curmudgeons, and linguistic sticklers will not be surprised to find that my favorite part was in the opening sentence: "He draws crowds of ecstatic fans wherever he goes, as the media pours over his every word and gesture." Ye gods! "Pours" over? Here I'm thinking that it shouldn't be beyond the grasp of even the over-matched music critics at USA Life to comprehend the distinction between "poring" over and "pouring" over - or if not, to refrain from using the expression in the first place, and choose a simpler phrase more in line with their language mastery so far. Although admittedly, the mental image of the media "pouring" over His Eminence is not one that I'm likely to forget in a hurry, I can tell you that. And while we're on the subject of language mastery, the dinosaurs and I have certainly lived long enough now to recognize for ourselves the curious phenomenon that words have not only lost all of their meaning, heaven knows, but for many of them, their pronunciations as well. Why, I can remember back when we were splashing around in the primordial ooze amidst the great unformed land masses, if someone wanted to subject an item to scientific scrutiny, they would perform what we called an experiment, and it was pronounced exactly the way it looks, with all of its many syllables intact. Nowadays, everywhere you turn, people are doing what they invariably refer to as "eck-SPEAR-mints," which always sounds to me like someone extracting a javelin from a candy dish, and which is to say, something that makes no sense at all. Just recently, I heard a TV commercial for a medical product that I didn't recognize, as the announcer assured me that this treatment from Bare was just what the doctor ordered. When I looked up, I saw that the company in question was not Bare at all, but the internationally renowned Bayer pharmaceutical giant, summarily shrunk down to one measly syllable due to time constraints, one supposes. It reminded me of the local commercials they have for New York's famous Circle Line tour boats, giving sightseers a chance to view attractions such as Gracie Mansion, home of New York's "mares." Inasmuch as they don't allow horses in the building, one can only suppose the announcer meant "mayors" instead. Next it was a college football game, and even though it did not take place in the deep south, where regional accents might come into play, nonetheless the sportscasters in the booth repeatedly referred to the team members as "plares," rather than players, which was as out of place in this far northern contest as hush puppies and mint juleps, I dare say. But it didn't stop there, because hard on its heels was another television commercial, this time for ladies active wear, which they assured me was warm without being bulky, so I could easily dress in "lairs." It sounds a little less ominous when you realize they meant "layers" instead of "lairs," but frankly, the whole situation has just given me such a headache that I'm going to go take some Bare. Also happening around the old stomping grounds lately, I had occasion to visit the bank last week, to straighten out a small but stubborn glitch in one of our checking accounts. Of course, they won't let you do anything with your own account at the bank without iron-clad proof of your identity, heaven knows (I always say that the only people who can easily get into any of my bank accounts are 13-year-old computer hackers from South America, and definitely not me) so I had come prepared with a fistful of documentation, all to attest to the veracity of my claims. I pulled out my drivers license at the request of my new bank friend, the estimable Roderick Fletch, but I had to forewarn him (as alert readers will no doubt recall) that the picture on it makes me look not only like a Mafia hit man, but a dead Mafia hit man at that. In fact, it's one of the reasons that the Police don't bother to arrest me when they see it, because it must be obvious to them that I'm already dead, and my life of crime has long since come to an inglorious end. For his part, I will say that Roderick was too much of a gentleman to flinch at the sight of my license photo, and in fact, he had his own horror story to tell. It seems that his picture was from his younger and wilder days, with unruly hair and a scruffy beard, and a far cry from the clean-cut model citizen before me at the bank. He freely admitted that upon impartial consideration, even he would believe the person pictured was a terrorist with no redeeming qualities, and after seeing the picture myself, I had no other option but to agree with him. And, I pointed out regretfully, he didn't even look dead like I do, marking him as a menace to society still at large, while my supposed reign of terror had mercifully come to a close. Although he agreed with my overall assessment, he insisted that the pictured individual was only temporarily alive in the most tenuous sense, since it would be plain to anyone that he was clearly a suicide bomber, and it was just a matter of time before he joined my dead Mafia hit man in the criminal netherworld. Unfortunately, that eventuality wouldn't be newsworthy on the scale of the Pope's music CD, so we couldn't expect the media to "pour" over us, and more's the pity, I'm sure. Elle

Big Box

Hello World, Happy December! Of course, everyone is aware (except for the godless Communists and KGB agents monitoring my email - and whose name is legion, heaven knows) that the 29th was the first Sunday in Advent already, so you can tell that we're well on our way to the bona fide heart of the holiday season, and no mistake, by jingle. After that, there's only 3 Sundays left before the holliest and jolliest of holidays, so anyone who's not planning to sit this one out on the 25th (and please don't think that the Druids and dinosaurs and I don't know who you are) had better step lively and hop to it, before the sugar-plum cavalcade steps its last hop, or hops its last step - and don't spare the eggnog, my good man! In other holiday news, we took advantage of having Black Friday off from work to indulge in a late Thanksgiving at the log cabin with my sister in the woods, and having 4 days off in a row really worked in our favor for that to happen. With short notice, and a lot of other things going on, we decided not to stay overnight - which turned out to be just as well, since we found out later that they tore down the Super Lodge in Kingston where we used to stay, and somehow decided that the site was better suited to a car dealership, rather than lodging for weary travelers. It would have come as a big surprise if we had been planning to spend the night there, because when we drove past on our way over the river and through the woods, we discovered that the entire place was nothing but a giant hole in the ground, and not a stick left standing from what had been a sizable establishment, including a restaurant and swimming pool besides. In any case, I doubt if the car dealership would let us stay there overnight, if only for old time's sake, even if we agreed to a test drive as part of the bargain. But one thing I do know for sure, it couldn't possibly be any colder than it was as a motel, I dare say. Through chattering teeth, mind you. Thanksgiving at the cabin is always a treat, and we were greeted with open arms by our hosts, with plenty of snacks to start things off, including cinnamon buns hot out of the oven, that needed no prompting for us to scarf them down, believe me. After a suitable interval (during which time, some of us went out to feed carrots to the resident neighborhood horse, who I don't mind saying, was very much in favor of the idea, from all appearances) we stepped up to a veritable smorgasbord of Thanksgiving favorites - like mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes, pearl onions, and cranberry sauce - and including organic vegan mushroom gravy, which was surprisingly delicious, compared to what it sounds like. After second helpings (and I see that our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery are all waving frantically and holding up signs about even third helpings by some of us, but frankly, they're notoriously unreliable in their observations) we waddled off to recline on the comfy furniture and enjoy some college football on the big screen TV, which did not disappoint, I can assure you. Watching young men toss around the old pigskin is hungry work, and it wasn't long before the lure of dessert had so completely overwhelmed our lassitude, that there we were, back in the kitchen for more. There was plenty to choose from, with 4 different kinds of pies, fresh fruit salad, nut bars, and the requisite chocolate turkeys, it goes without saying. We followed that up with more college football, which was just as well, since we were just about good for nothing else at that point, and would have been totally unequal to the task of even the most rudimentary games, much less intelligent conversation, and I ought to know. Since we weren't staying over, we took the prudent way out, and packed up before we were too sleepy to move, and actually made it home with no trouble, and what seemed to be unusually light traffic under the circumstances. I would say that we only have our memories to console us now, but fortunately, we came home with such a profusion of left-overs that it will probably be many weeks before we have nothing but our memories to console ourselves with, I shouldn't wonder. Now, where's that chocolate turkey? Speaking of holidays, hard on the veritable heels of Thanksgiving on Thursday, and Black Friday right after that (or if you believe the screaming ads on TV and in the newspaper, Black Friday was also on Thursday and didn't bother to wait for the next day at all) contributing a welcome breath of sanity into the proceedings was Small Business Saturday on the 28th - and I for one am proud to stand up and say, "I'd like to thank all the little people ..... " Of course, proponents of the event invite us to seize this opportunity to support local businesses, who not only employ our neighbors, but also pay taxes in our communities - and survive with determination amid relentless onslaughts from big box stores and online merchants alike. So I hope that everyone made a special effort to get out there on Saturday to patronize a neighborhood deli, nail salon, gas station, bakery, or small retailer of your choice, and help keep the wheels of commerce chugging along like a well-oiled (tiny) Swiss watch. I'll have mine with chocolate, if you don't mind. Also on the local scene, Bill and I actually went to a concert last week, and lived to tell the tale, and not to mention, were much improved culturally by the experience. The organist at my church, the estimable William Eckfeld, has a long and storied career in music, and he was kind enough to send out invitations to the St. Thomas Orchestra Fall Concert, where they would be performing the world premiere of his Concerto for Cello and Orchestra, featuring the renowned cellist Bernard Tamosaitis as soloist. The St. Thomas Orchestra was founded in 2002, consisting of nearly 70 accomplished amateurs ranging in age from 15 to 85, all dedicated to a common commitment of performing great symphonic music and the pursuit of musical excellence. (It goes without saying that you should feel free to visit their web site at www.storchestra.org and see for yourself.) Mr. Eckfeld not only plays the piano, organ and double bass, but is also a talented composer and popular educator, serving as Orchestra Director at White Plains High School for almost 30 years. Besides his concerto, there was the Symphony No. 2 in D major, Opus 43 by Jean Sibelius, and rounding out this program of Modern Masters was "An American in Paris" by the legendary George Gershwin. Frankly, it was a good thing they included that last one, and people can call me a Philistine if they like, but those other 2 pieces were awfully hard to take - and I might even go so far as to say that they set a new low standard in the long-and-boring category. But the orchestra was very good nonetheless, and the White Plains High School Concert Auditorium was comfortable, with surprisingly good acoustics. There was a reception afterward, where eager volunteers offered snacks, or sold jewelry, tote bags or CDs as fund raisers for the orchestra. We sprang for one of the CDs, and while I have nothing against Wagner or Mahler, I'm afraid without Gershwin to salvage things, I'm thinking it might be more than a Philistine like me could possibly handle, and that's not just the glockenspiel talking, believe me. But after all, they're a small business, and we supported them, so no one can say that we didn't do our part to keep that tiny Swiss watch running on all cylinders and full speed ahead. Can I have my chocolate now? Elle