Joy Ride

Hello World, And so here it is 2017 already, believe it or not, all bright and shiny like a brand new penny, and spreading out before us like a wonderful present, with all of its surprises yet to be discovered. I do hope that the New Year will be a good one for you and your family, full of peace and joy, health and happiness, and plenty of good times from one end to the other. In fact, I hope it's so great that you hate to see it go out in December, and not that it wears out its welcome early and you can't wait to be rid of it. Of course, it does no good to complain, heaven knows, but there's a reason why they say that hope springs eternal, and right about now, that's the best we have going for us. Meanwhile, for all the Druids among us (and you know who you are) the big deal at the end of last year was not Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or even New Year's Eve, but the winter solstice on December 21, marking the shortest day of the year in terms of daylight hours. Happily, that means that every day since then has been having incrementally longer periods of daylight, starting earlier in the morning and lasting longer in the afternoon, which I'm pretty sure is an improvement that we can all rally around with enthusiasm, if not downright euphoria. It won't be long before we're not still getting up and stumbling around in the gloomy pre-dawn darkness, and even better, we'll be coming home from work while it's still light out, like real people, and not feeling like alien mole people released from underground tunnels into the inky blackness of outer space. I admit that the concept of space travel has never held much allure for me, but lately the idea of going to a planet with two suns would seem to have a lot of advantages that I could really sink my teeth into, by Krypton. On the local scene, the holiday season brings many joys into our lives, not the least of which are merry greetings from friends and relatives, neighbors, business acquaintances, and not to mention, total strangers near and far, with jovial sentiments of yuletide cheer - or conversely, carefully crafted messages of politically correct non-specific content, so as not to offend even the most sensitive recipient, and appropriate for any, all, or no particular occasion at all, I dare say. I was surprised to receive so very many "Seasons Greetings" and "Happy Holidays" cards, rather than Merry Christmas, even among diehard church-goers, and more than previous years, those horrible cards that are black or navy blue and manage to be depressing no matter what they say. Of course, I have always maintained that a Happy Holidays card featuring The Holy Family at Bethlehem, or a Seasons Greetings card festooned with holly berries, candy canes, and reindeer is nothing more than a mixed metaphor of the worst sort, and it's a wonder to me that The Holiday Police are not more vigilant about stamping them right out. One non-traditional greeting I was glad to receive was a postcard with holiday felicitations from our sanitation crew, who are apparently better known as Moe, Larry & Curley. I know this because one side of the card features a picture of them in front of their truck, and the Three Stooges' names are very plainly printed right on top of them as they stand there smiling. Fortunately for us, they do a much better job at picking up our trash than the legendary comedy team probably would do in their place, so as far as I'm concerned, they can call themselves anything that they want. Is that you, Shemp? I can add two more joys of the season to our holiday festivities, and none the less welcome for the fact that we gave them to ourselves, rather than having them bestowed upon us by a benevolent universe or generous benefactor, I can assure you. Alert readers may recall that one of Bill's favorite musical performers is Vienna Teng, and we had previously braved the trackless wilderness of Uncasville, Connecticut, to see her free show in the Wolf Den at the Mohegan Sun casino, which I don't mind saying, her legion of ardent fans greeted with (wolf) howls of delight. This time around, she was slated to be at Rockwood Music Hall in lower Manhattan, where we had been before, and fancied ourselves old hands at this sort of thing. We managed to miss the early train and had to wait for the next one, but luckily still had time to squeeze in some dinner from the food court at Grand Central Terminal, and the specialty grilled cheese sandwiches at the Grand Central Market could have been worth the trip all by themselves, by golly. It turned out to be just as well that we didn't get to Rockwood any earlier, because the show started late, and waiting outside on the sidewalk was nobody's idea of a good time, especially after 45 minutes in the freezing cold. Personally, I feel that Vienna is too popular to play a venue like Rockwood, because after the doors finally opened, the surging tide of humanity quickly filled up the space to what could be considered "standing room only," as long as nobody wanted to breathe, besides standing there. We shoe-horned ourselves into a corner of what could be laughingly referred to as the balcony, which afforded a good view of the stage, but also meant that we had no way of getting back out again, until just about everybody else left first. But it was an interesting show as always, this time with unexpected trumpet and trombone, of all things, and in a place that size, you can believe me when I say that the brass rattled the rafters like a runaway freight train on a bumpy track. We really did enjoy the show, on the whole, and if nothing else, proved that the old geezers can still hold their own on the live music scene of the modern age, and live to tell the tale. Also in honor of landing a new job that I really like (however temporary it may be) I decided to treat myself to an appointment at the nail salon, and signed up for a long-overdue mani-pedi, which I probably haven't indulged in for the last 3 years or so. Over the course of a good long while, we had tried a variety of salons throughout our fair city, that pretty much ran the gamut, and we were surprised at the difference in quality between them. Some aimed for the glamour look, with shiny furnishings, flat screen TVs, and the latest equipment. Others sported a more stark appearance without amenities, and made no apologies for their time-worn decor. I'm not impressed with fancy trappings, but I wasn't expecting the wide range of expertise of the manicurists, that was often alarming, and occasionally dangerous. I discovered that both manicures and pedicures, far from being the simple operations I envisioned, can nowadays be instead painful exercises in poking and pummeling that are not for the faint-hearted - and I have left more than one establishment not only bruised but actually bleeding, and wondering how these people ever got jobs with sharp implements in the first place. So rather than taking a chance with some new joint and fearing the worst, we went back to the salon where we originally started, and hoped that the new management still maintained a "do no harm" policy when it came to customers. Luckily for me, the beautician was competent and very gentle, so I had no complaints on that score, and I walked out of there as soft, smooth, shiny, and sweet-smelling as I could have hoped. It was a rejuvenating way to start the New Year, and I promised myself that it would not be another 3 years before I did that again. After all, if 2017 is indeed going to be better than last year, it's got to start somewhere, and that's not just a lot of Moe, Larry & Curley, by Shemp. Elle