Second Fiddle

Hello World, Happy Memorial Day weekend! So here we have come at last at the unofficial start of summer - shaking off the icy shackles of winter and the unpredictable brickbats of spring - finally kicking off the long holiday weekend that ushers in the season of surf, sand, hammocks, watermelon, and lemonade. (It does no good to mention flip-flops, heaven knows, since people apparently wear them year-round nowadays, even in the northeast.) Of course, there will be parades galore, and it goes without saying, sales, sales, and more sales - plus beaches and parks opening of the season, to welcome winter-weary visitors on all sides. It also goes without saying that The Flag Brigade will be up to its usual standards of flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, and since this is one of the few years that Memorial Day (observed) coincides with the actual original Decoration Day (May 30) they will only be tasked with doing it once, rather than on 2 separate days. Whatever makes life easier for The Flag Brigade's last two poor addled brain cells (which I have renamed "Stars" and "Stripes" for the occasion) is a very good thing in my opinion, and that's not just a lot of rockets red glare, believe me. The previous Sunday was Pentecost, also known as "the birthday of the church" - although admittedly, without any presents, fireworks, green beer, folk dancing, parades, or betting to liven things up, it's a little hard to get all worked up about it. Respectable members of the congregation who remember (not like someone who shall remain nameless, but who looks suspiciously like me) are supposed to wear red in honor of the day, and which would have been a nice touch for the tiny choir of 5 ladies to look pigmentally matched - that is, if only I hadn't forgotten, and worn purple instead, alas. It was also a very special occasion as one of our venerable congregants, the estimable Sarah Gabrielson, turned 80 on that very day, and arrived with an entourage of family and friends to surround her with even more lovingkindness. When called upon to speak a few words of wisdom to the assembled throng upon reaching this exalted milestone, Miss Sarah modestly averred and insisted that she was actually 8 years old, since after all, everyone knows that zero doesn't mean anything. Now, that's the kind of birthday I can live with! It would take even more of a curmudgeon than yours truly to be less than delighted at the magnificent panoply of spring flowers everywhere, and the derisive snickering of our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery notwithstanding. It's finally gotten warm enough for early roses, and their pearly pink petals and heavenly fragrance are nothing if not a tonic for what ails you, I dare say. The star of Bethlehem is also cropping up in unexpected places, no doubt due to the interference of our juvenile delinquent squirrels, I shouldn't wonder, but no less welcome for all that. Speaking of temperatures, the Head Honcho at the temporary job where I'm working now wrote up an order for what she described as "2 pocket thermmadors" (and I can guarantee that your spell checker is not going to think much of that word, believe me) so I very helpfully (and under the circumstances, I use that term in the very loosest sense of the meaning, I promise you) improved upon it by rewriting the order as "2 digital pocket thermeters" - and which your poor beleaguered spell checker is not going to like a whole lot better, I can tell you that. In intellectual circles, this is what we call putting the illiterate foxes in charge of the alphabetical hen house, as it were, or going from the mis-spelling frying pan to the gibberish fire, and no good can come of it, Noah Webster. Well, it certainly can't be said that there's any grass growing on the evil spirit of Affirmed, who in spite of being dead lo these many years, burst out of the gate, so to speak, and eliminated any possibility of a potential Triple Crown right off the bat and in decisive fashion to boot. Although the Derby darling Nyquist took his post as the 3-5 favorite in the tiny field of 11 horses (among only 3 out of the original 20 who also ran in the Derby) this time around, it was Exaggerator avenging his 2nd place finish at Churchill Downs, and running away with it handily by 3-1/2 lengths in the muddy slop at Pimlico. Bill, who is our maven of horse-flesh around here, liked the gray dappled Cherry Wine, who acquitted himself nicely with a strong 2nd place finish in a virtual tie with Nyquist, while the other horses didn't show much stomach for the swampy conditions, and called it a day early on. (Personally, I feel the jockey's strategy was the undoing of Nyquist, by starting him out at full speed through most of the race, so the poor thing had nothing left at the end.) The biggest difference you notice between the jewel of "My Old Kentucky Home" and the flower of "Maryland, My Maryland," would immediately be the crowds. The Derby is a holiday in Kentucky, and everyone shows up to party in their fanciest clothes, or gaudiest costumes, with signature hats that are a spectacle unto themselves. A true son or daughter of The Bluegrass State would no more wear jeans to the racetrack than they would smear themselves with mud to go to the Presidential inauguration - and much less would the crack security forces at Churchill Downs even allow some under-dressed ruffian to cross their luxurious threshold to begin with. On the other hand (or hoof, as it may be) Pimlico is a bastion of egalitarian leisure, with shorts, sweats, tank tops, baseball caps, flip-flops, and leggings being the order of the day, and not a cocktail dress anywhere in sight. And so, once again, it should be interesting to see which 3-year-olds (besides Nyquist and Exaggerator who obviously have a score to settle) make the trek to Long Island for the Belmont Stakes on June 11, and see if one of them wins 2 out of 3, or if each of the 3 races is won by a different horse instead. And let's face it, if the nag in question remembered to wear red for Pentecost, well then, that would be a horse of a different color indeed. Elle

Getaway Car

Hello World, What is so rare as a day in May, indeed! Recently there have been isolated times around here when the weather has not only been not as horrible as usual, but actually pretty pleasant, as hard as that may be to believe, at least for us local folks, and I ought to know. On the whole, it's been one heck of a cold and damp Spring, many degrees below normal for this time of year, and not much to recommend it in any way. I'm sure that people have grown tired of hearing me say that it was warmer in February than it is now, and I despaired at the idea of going camping in just about 7 weeks, under the current conditions. But lately there have been one or two warm days, with glorious sunshine and gentle breezes, that can't help but revive the spirit and give new hope for brighter days ahead - and I don't mind saying, it's about time. Of course, all too soon, we'll all be complaining about the heat and humidity, heaven knows, which I suppose only goes to prove that things can always be worse - and with the latest spate of "Franken-weather" cropping up everywhere, there's a good chance that might be an understatement of epic proportions, I dare say. Raining frogs and plague of locusts, anyone? Speaking of nature run amok, I see that the bright green and multi-color Monk Parakeets have returned to the neighbors' feeders for another season, which surprised me because they're such noisy birds that we usually hear them before we see them. But there's no mistaking their spectacular plumage, even from inside the house (through dirty windows, I regret to admit) and across the driveway, their showy presence is impossible to miss, even for me. And while they don't qualify as a harbinger of Spring, as late as it is, it's still a treat to welcome them back, livening up the place as exotic visitors, and giving the local wildlife an unexpected shot of color that never loses its appeal. So I guess you could say that even though there isn't a 90's punk rock band in sight, this is still our very own Green Day. Meanwhile, outside of the local area, the NHL playoffs have come down to the final four, before we know who will compete for the Stanley Cup as the last two teams standing. They have already left in their wake many tens of thousands of disappointed fans in cities as diverse as Detroit, Philadelphia, Chicago, Nashville, Anaheim, New York (and associated boroughs) Dallas, Los Angeles and Washington D.C., of all places. The Capitals swaggered into the post-season with a phenomenal 120 points, and all to no avail - in fact, of the clubs with the highest total points, only St. Louis and Pittsburgh are still on their feet, the rest were soundly defeated by lesser teams with worse records. Or as we say in the wonderful world of sports wagering, "Go figure." It's really true that the regular season and the post-season are two completely different animals, so to speak, and success in one doesn't necessarily correlate to success in the other - which is why they make them play the games, and not just assume that the teams with the better records will automatically beat the teams below them. Across the boards, the NBA playoffs are also down to four, and that moaning and wailing you hear is from the likes of Houston, Portland, Memphis, San Antonio, Boston, Atlanta, Charleston, Miami and Indiana - and even worse for two-sport cities like Dallas, Detroit and Los Angeles, where the hockey and basketball teams were both booted out of the playoffs at basically the same time, thanks not. On the outdoor scene, a quick glance at the baseball standings so far shows the mighty Yankees with a lackluster record of 19-22 and at the bottom of their division, while the junior franchise fares slightly better at 23-18 and in 3rd place. On the other hand, the surprising Cubs are running away with the Central division and sporting the best record in baseball by far, so it goes without saying that the standings in May can be a wildly inaccurate gauge of how the season will actually turn out. As Brian Hyland once famously observed, "See you in September," and that's not just the Cracker Jacks talking, believe me. Last weekend, our neighborhood association had their annual Boathouse Opening Party, as they do every Spring, full of the same rituals and traditions for generations on end, heavy on the fun, capped off with groaning tables piled with food, and not to mention, copious amounts of wine, wine, and more wine. A day after the festivities, all of the neighbors received a frantic email from one of the residents, posing the musical question: "If anyone found a little pink car with a girl in it - it's Kaleesha's. Please let me know." Far be it from me to be flippant or unhelpful at a desperate time of lost toys, but I couldn't stop myself from sending back a reply saying, "You obviously need GPS tracking on that thing!" She laughed. Also on the vehicular front, I happened to be out in the parking lot at the real estate office where I'm working now, and found myself in the corner of the lot where the fence company had hung a sign on their chain-link handiwork, no doubt many decades ago at this point. In fact, it would only make sense nowadays to those of us "of a certain age," because the sum total of the sign consisted of the following: ================== GUN HILL FENCE FA4 5000 ================== The fence has been there so long, and the sign is so old, that the company still had an alpha-numeric exchange like they used to (ours at home was Ivanhoe 3, and I'm sure all the rest of you geezers out there can remember yours just as easily to this day) and never a thought of an area code, fax number, email address or web site to clutter things up with. I realized that young people these days wouldn't even recognize it as a phone number in the first place, since they never knew those sorts of numbers existed to begin with, and would just assume that it would be some sort of product code to identify the type of fence, or some such. In retrospect, the amazing thing is not only how sturdy the fence is (after discovering the pertinent artifact that reveals its original time period) but also how the sign attached to it has more than stood the test of time, down through the years, in spite of all that friend or foe, man or beast, machine or Mother Nature, could throw at it, and stared it down with implacable defiance. I happen to know that the fence company is still in business, but like "The Man in the White Suit," I have the feeling that the sign company has long since gone under, as the superior quality of its indestructible signs eliminated the need for repeat orders to replace the worn-out originals. By contrast, in the modern world of high technology and specialized manufacturing, we have products that don't even outlast their own warranty, much less set endurance records with impunity. This is what is known as "progress." Elle

Daily Double

Hello World, Well, if we've made it to Saturday, we've managed to get past our one and only Friday the 13th for 2016, so at least we can put that behind us and not worry about superstition dogging our heels for the rest of the year, and thanks ever so. Well, perhaps not so much for the truck hauling scrap metal across the Tappan Zee Bridge on Friday morning, which overturned when the rear axle broke off, spewing debris along the middle of the span - and not to mention, all of the harried commuters stuck behind it on the bridge for over 5 hours while maintenance crews worked feverishly to clean it up. Here I'm thinking that their opinion of the hypothetical Friday the 13th superstition probably hit a brand new low as a result of the incident, and I wouldn't be surprised if they all stayed home from work the next time it rolls around in January 2017. No sense tempting fate a second time with that, I always say, and that goes double for the scrap metal, by golly. After all, the last thing anyone needs is a double dose of double trouble, which is a double whammy that I'm sure we can all live without, and not even on a double dare. In fact, I'm double sure of it. Speaking of a multiplication of eventful days, last Thursday, the Feast of the Ascension, the rollicking Cinco de Mayo, and the National Day of Prayer all happened on the exact same day, which is almost a sort of "triple double," or it probably would be, according to The New Math, anyway. We had a lovely service at church on Thursday, with attendance in the double figures, which is always a big deal for us on any occasion. (Of course, we usually have to count the minister and organist in the total as well, and let's face it, they get paid to be there, after all.) Cinco de Mayo was its usual happy-go-lucky self, with the anti-Bonaparte contingent full of beans, and no lack of tequila to let the good times keep on rolling. On the other hand, I'm sure the National Day of Prayer was extremely earnest and idealistic, although I've yet to notice it having any effect on the sorry state of the world in general, in spite of their best intentions. Probably not enough tequila. On a different double bill, we had the historic Kentucky Derby and Mothers Day on the same weekend, or you might say, a little something for everyone, depending on your tastes. The Derby featured the undefeated Nyquist (named after hockey player Gustav Nyquist of the Detroit Redwings) in a crowded field of 20 horses, before a packed house of 167,227 spectators. (Heck, you'd think that last person could have dragged in 3 of his or her cronies to make it an even 167,230 instead.) Nyquist was the hands-down favorite at post-time, and it's easy to say, won handily - although the second favorite, Exaggerator, made a valiant run down the stretch and almost caught up with the winner at the wire. Bill and I agreed that the bland field of 20 solid brown stallions was about the most boring that we can ever remember at Churchill Downs, without even any fillies or female jockeys to liven things up, and not to take anything away from Nyquist, but the race wasn't much better. The way things go nowadays, it should be interesting to see which of the 20 horses (besides Nyquist, obviously) head to Pimlico for the Preakness Stakes on May 21, in a bid for a chance at the Triple Crown, or if nothing else, in the role of spoiler instead. And speaking of spoiling, I sincerely hope that's what everyone out there in the wide world did for their favorite females last Sunday, whether moms, moms-to-be, pet moms, or just special ladies with mom-like qualities, that we couldn't live without, and besides which, who would want to? We had a quiet and relaxing day here, and even the cats behaved themselves for a change - possibly due to an excess of tequila from Cinco de Mayo that they were still sleeping off, I shouldn't wonder. Around here, we call that a "win-win," and I don't have to wait for the Preakness to know that. In other local news, the spirea have popped open along the rock wall in spectacular fashion, like a giant bridal bouquet putting the perfect finishing touch on an enormous wedding. (When they look outstanding, we proudly claim them as our very precious own, while conversely, when conditions make them look all ratty and bedraggled, we disown them without a second thought and say they're the neighbors' spirea instead.) The delightful azaleas have burst open in every color of the rainbow, while the burgeoning allium, cimicifuga, and rosebushes make you glad to be outside. And speaking of the great outdoors, it was on Monday night when several of us arrived at church for our monthly Council meeting, only to have one of our number inadvertently stray off the path, and summarily tumble down a small incline like the proverbial ton of bricks. It was no improvement to his dignity, I can tell you that, and even worse for his poor ankle, which took the brunt of the mishap, and necessitated a trip to the E.R. with full police car, ambulance, and fire truck escort. It turned out to be a very bad sprain, and certainly could have been a lot worse by the looks of it, so this is what we call being grateful for small favors. But we all agreed that it was a rather desperate excuse for getting out of a dumb church meeting, and one that I cannot wholeheartedly endorse in good conscience, even from the name-calling and chair-throwing bad old days of yore, and I ought to know. And also on the topic of dumb things, we have bad news for humor fans the world over from this tidbit in last week's USA TODAY: ===================================== ON THE FRONT BURNER: 'BOATY MCBOATFACE' NAME IS SUNK Boaty McBoatface had captured the public's fancy, but British officials said Friday the country's newest polar research vessel will be christened Sir David Attenborough, in honor of the prominent naturalist and broadcaster. But all is not lost for Boaty McBoatface fans who had voted in favor of the unusual name by an overwhelming margin. Science minister Jo Johnson said a submarine vessel that will support the crew and various research programs will be called Boaty McBoatface. The jokey suggestion Boaty McBoatface got 124,109 votes, more than three times its nearest rival. ======================================== Oh well, at the end of the day, I suppose that's all we can expect from a nation that thrives on warm beer and kippers, after all. Personally, I think David Attenborough should change his name to Boaty McBoatface, so they can call the ship Sir Boaty McBoatface instead. You heard it here first, folks. And finally, a true double threat that is capable of doing two things at once, we have an impressive full-page ad in our local TV listings for a remarkable gadget that was certainly news to me. It appears to be a regular telephone that provides amplification for people who have trouble hearing voices clearly through the handset. "But wait!" (as they always say on late-night commercials) "That's not all!" It also includes a display panel, where the incoming conversation is translated into printed captions, making it possible to read what is being said, as well as hearing it - and how cool is that! It uses a similar technology to the closed captioning on your television set, based on an online service that provides voice-to-text translations that it claims are "real-time, accurate, and readable." The captioning service is free, and it does not require the callers to have any special equipment on their side, for the system to work on your side. For a mere $75.00 (and as Bill is fond of pointing out, with more technology than was built into the original Mercury space capsule) I think it's not only brilliant but practical, and a more perfect use for all of this modern technology at our fingertips would be hard to find. Of course, it might also have the added benefit of inadvertent humor, if the captions turn out more like Mad Libs than the pin-point accuracy they might be aiming for - but hey, around here we call that sort of serendipitous bonus a lucky double play, and that's not just a lot of double talk, believe me. Elle

Cold Blooded

Hello World, And they're off! The time has surely come for us to celebrate all the old nags in our lives - and besides which, it's the weekend for the Kentucky Derby also. (Maestro, rim shot, please!) Of course, more importantly, it's also the time for us to honor all the actual mothers, and wide variety of other maternal figures in our vast circles of acquaintances, without whom the fabric of society would quickly unravel before our very eyes like a cheap sweater, heaven knows. So it's shaping up to be a Moms & Mares weekend, that's for sure, and while everyone's mom may not be as quick out of the gate as Secretariat's (Something Royal) at least you don't have to hire a trailer to pull them around in, and that's not just a lot of horsefeathers, believe me. Speaking of maternal figures in our vast circle of acquaintances, ya gotta love this snippet from the local newspaper about construction of the replacement Tappan Zee Bridge over the majestic Hudson River: ============================ Name TZB's New Baby Falcon Flash. Ro-bird-o. Falconetta. Those are among the 10 choices in the voting contest to name the latest resident of the Tappan Zee Bridge - a fluffy, white falcon chick. The single chick made its debut in mid- April above the existing span. Last year, three chicks were born in the falcon nest. The chick's growth can be seen on the bridge's falcon webcam, which is also where the online naming poll can be found. Other name options are Dutchie, Irvwing, Tap, Marshmallow, Rocky, Tappy Feet and Torpedo - at least no one went with Birdy McBirdface. ============================ Alert readers will no doubt recognize that as a sly dig against the colossal British polar research vessel, whose contest to name the leviathan only succeeded in the runaway farcical moniker of Boaty McBoatface - to the chagrin of the scientific community, not well known for their sense of humor in the first place, I dare say. Elsewhere in the natural world, a gambol around the property continues to amaze and delight on every side, as new blooms burst into profuse colors, or heavenly fragrances, or both. The wonderful wisteria is draping above the portico as a treat for the senses upstairs and downstairs, while bright yellow buttercups and lamium dot the lawn like golden drops of sunshine. In the flowerbed, there's deep purple bugleweed and hot pink cranesbill, alongside what I consider early columbine, just about to pop open with its signature blossoms in every hue. We even discovered the tattered remnant of our once abundant lily of the valley - long since assumed to have been annihilated by the vigorous ministrations of our thundering herd of roofers, thanks not - staunchly re-establishing themselves little by little, with their adorable bell-shaped flowers and sweet aroma, even more welcome by their return from extinction. Out in the neighborhood, the flowering trees are putting on a show, led by the stately chestnuts, with cascades of creamy petals like angel wings fluttering in the breeze. If instead of artificial intelligence, scientists could come up with artificial spring in a box, that would certainly make life worth living through the long cold winter, by golly. Meanwhile, in entertainment news, the minions at Optimum, our cable provider, have a plan to enhance my TV viewing experience, with program suggestions based on my personal favorites that I watch regularly. They start out with this opening gambit, which seems rather implausible on the face of it: ======================================= Put your personality to the test. Hold out your palm. Ahh, there we go, we're getting a reading. Your TV personality is... Find out now by letting us channelyze what you "Like," and we'll connect you to a custom channel of all the TV shows you'll love. Take the Optimum TV personality quiz now at www.whatireallywantchannel.com ======================================== So I figure, what the heck, what have I got to lose, and I fill out their questionnaire to see how close they would get to the "what I really want channel" for my personal tastes. Below is the unadulterated list that they came up with, apparently without a hint of irony, and as Dave Barry always says, "I'm not making this up" - =========================== Little People, Big World The Real Housewives of New Jersey I Am Cait ("Shoot me now! Shoot me now!") Newlyweds on Bravo =========================== I don't think so! In fact, if that was the channel they would provide of what I really want to watch, I would not only pull the cable wire clear out of the wall, but toss the television set straight out the window right along with it. I could say that after spending all that money on my eye surgery a few years ago, I would not go so far as to actually rip the eyes right out of my head as well, but frankly, I couldn't guarantee that, especially in the face of such provocation when I might not be accountable for my own actions. Where is Daffy Duck when you need him, indeed. Speaking of irony, intended or otherwise, two of the radio stations that I listen to in the car are both part of the Clear Channel family of media outlets, which is a huge conglomerate that has snapped up probably hundreds of independent broadcasters under its nationwide umbrella. Even though the two stations are in distinctly different programming categories - one features pop oldies, while the other plays classic rock - their play-lists often coincide in surprising ways, much more than would be expected by mere coincidence. Last week, I switched from the oldies station playing Foreigner's "Hot Blooded" to the rock station in the middle of the same band's "Cold as Ice," and which somehow manages to be individually exactly identical, while also being thematically exactly opposite, in a simultaneous manner that would be literally impossible to happen by chance. In terms of astronomical odds against, it would be on a par with Black Sabbath and Whitesnake singing "Ebony and Ivory" on two different stations at the same time. Heck, with those odds, you wouldn't be able to make it into the Kentucky Derby at gunpoint, and I'm not even sure that your own mother would be all that thrilled to see you either, come to think of it. And the mother of Lou Gramm from Foreigner, even less so, I shouldn't wonder. If you decide to throw caution to the wind and give it a try anyway, go ahead and tell her that Birdy McBirdface sent you. Elle