Swift Kick

Greetings, Pilgrims! Gobble, gobble and Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there in the wide world, near and far, far and wide, here and there, there and back, back and forth, front and back, back to back, from sea to shining sea, and purple mountains majesty above the fruited plains, besides. It's true that Thanksgiving seems to have arrived with its terrible swift sword way too early this time around, but we must all remember that it was President Franklin Roosevelt in 1941 who established the final resting place of the holiday on the 4th Thursday of November (before which, it was a particularly slippery character, skittering haphazardly around the calendar in a wayward fashion) which is usually the last Thursday in the month, except when November has 5 Thursdays in it, like this year. Thanks to the month starting on a Wednesday, the convivial celebration of Turkey Day came almost a week sooner than it might have, no doubt taking many of us by surprise, and throwing the unwary into paroxysms of last-minute chaos, that have been the byword of movable feasts since the dawn of time. (Or to paraphrase the unofficial motto of the Post Office, "the swift completion of their appointed rounds," as it were.) In any event, on behalf of Tom Turkey and his namesake holiday, we call on another Tom to join in the entertainment (or perhaps tomfoolery would be the better word, under the circumstances) and just leave the rest of the tommyrot to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, or know the reason why. Alert readers on social media recently might have noticed a flurry of what are known as Tom Swifties, where a comment is attributed to the hypothetical Tom, paired with a corresponding adverb that, together, will result in a truly deplorable pun - and is not in any way for the faint-hearted, believe me. (My contribution to the linguistic challenge: "But this page is blank," complained Tom, discontentedly.) With that as your guide, Tom and I welcome you to the following compendium of adverbial humor, with an open invitation to pass it along to your unsuspecting compatriots, and feel free to add your own while you're at it. Or in the words of our spokesman, "Tally ho!" cried Tom hoarsely. ~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~ "I can't believe I ate so much pineapple," Tom said dolefully. "The steering wheel won't budge!" Tom cried straightforwardly. "I just adore St. Louis," Tom said archly. "Take the prisoner downstairs," Tom said condescendingly. "Let's go hang out with Greg and Gary!" said Tom gregariously. "I used to be a pilot," Tom explained. "Let's look for another Grail," Tom requested. "I dropped the toothpaste," said Tom, crestfallen. "I think I might be schizophrenic," said Tom, being frank. "You pulled my arm out of its socket," said Tom disjointedly. "I love reading Reader's Digest while eating Campbell's soup," said Tom condensely. "I am going to throw this pumpkin," said Tom smashingly. "It's so dark!" shouted Tom, delightedly. "We're 36,000 feet above Nebraska," Tom plainly stated. "AARRGGHH! I've just been stabbed in the chest," said Tom, half-heartedly. "I like ragged margins," said Tom, without justification. "Where's the attendance roll?" Tom asked listlessly. "I really shouldn't have reached into the corn thresher while it was still running," Tom said off-handedly. "We're trying to run a business here," Tom said firmly. "You're letting the fire go out," said Tom ungratefully. "Get into the back of the boat!" yelled Tom sternly. "Merlot or Zinfandel?" Tom whined. "Just a little whiskey," said Tom wryly. "Seven no-trumps," Tom declared. "My perm came out way too curly," said Tom, looking sheepish. "I know what sex that cat is," said Tom. "What's another name for an elf?" asked Tom impishly. "I'm sterile," said Tom inconceivably. "I have everything a man could want," said Tom needlessly. "I don't want to play cards any more," said Tom wistfully. "I really wish I hadn't dropped that on my foot," Tom said ironically. "Lower the thermostat!" Tom cried hotly. "Behold, the power of the Dark Side," Tom said forcefully. "I can't believe I ate all that hay," Tom said balefully. "I'll sue them for whiplash!" said Tom snidely. (*** You youngsters out there, ask your grandparents about that one.***) "Now I'm really in the soup," said Tom wantonly. "I'm going to tell you a story about a man who never arrived on time," said Tom belatedly. "3.1415926535897932," said Tom piously. "Bartender, give me a martini," Tom said dryly. "They weren't real bullets," Tom said blankly. "Add some grated lemon peel!" Tom said zestfully. "Where's Garfunkel?" Tom asked artlessly. "Yesterday was my last day as an eight-year-old," Tom said benignly. "This is a real pea souper," Tom said foggily. "I just downloaded a quartet on my iPod," Tom said fortunately. "I couldn't eat another banana," Tom said fruitfully. "I really miss the Princess of Monaco," Tom said gracelessly. "I can never remember the words to that song," Tom said humbly. "He just joined the army," Tom said privately. "I'll have the cheap coffee," Tom said instantly. "I'd like two, no, three dozen long stemmed American Beauties, please," Tom said morosely. "I oppose building that half-way house down the street," Tom said nimbly. "Square root of two?" asked Tom irrationally. "I can't play the guitar," complained Tom fretfully. "Now the Star Trek Transporter is a reality," Tom beamed. "My feet hurt," Tom said flatly. "I feel A-1 today," Tom said saucily. "I'll trim the shrubbery tomorrow," Tom hedged. "But ... he's dead," Tom said stiffly. "I never wear boxers," said Tom briefly. "I just got promoted in the army," said Tom disgruntedly. "It's been a mixed season for the team," Tom said winsomely. "...And this reduces to x - x, which is...?" said Tom naughtily. "No daughter of mine is going out dressed like that!" said Tom, a little tartly. "What's this, the outside of a tree?" Tom barked. "What's wrong with worshipping a paper bag?" Tom asked sacrilegiously. "Call a plumber!" Tom piped. "Comb your hair," Tom snarled. "I don't like pictures on my walls," Tom said artlessly. "Pass the Angostura," Tom said bitterly. "I need someone to inspire my art," Tom mused. "This drink needs to be colder," said Tom icily. “I put the tent peg through my foot,” Tom said painstakingly. "Perfect, imperfect, past, future... who cares?" Tom asked tensely. "Don't leave the champagne open," Tom said flatly. "Goodyear or Firestone?" asked Tom tiredly. "Whatever happened to the accusative case?" Tom objected. "It's the Venus de Milo," Tom said disarmingly. "Let's watch 'Snow White'," Tom said happily. And bashfully. And grumpily. And ... "It sounds like an accordion," Tom bellowed. "That's no upright," Tom said grandly. "I can read Braille," Tom said with feeling. "It's Heisenberg," Tom said uncertainly. "I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn," Tom said aimlessly. "It took two tries, but I got all ten pins," Tom said sparingly. "I got her the underwire type," Tom said supportively. "I don't want the small pieces of cheese," Tom said ungratefully. "That fortune teller isn't very good," Tom said unpredictably. "I'll send the SOS again," Tom said remorsefully. "I crushed the grapes," Tom said whinily. "I've received an inheritance," Tom said willingly. "I have no idea who chopped down this tree," said Tom, stumped. "We do it every seven days," Tom said weakly. "The battery goes in the other way around," noted Tom positively. "Those photos didn't come out very well at all," Tom shot back negatively. "I was told it was a seabird," Tom said gullibly. "I'll be asking questions later," Tom said testily. "I broke up with my Chinese girlfriend," Tom said, disoriented. "I've had brain surgery," Tom said open mindedly. "I'm ten years old," Tom said decadently. "That's a lot of electricity," Tom said amply. "I'm afraid!" Tom said discouragedly. "This safety glass isn't very well made," Tom said bad temperedly. "I'm just starting my model T," Tom said crankily. "I'm doing the ironing," Tom said decreasingly. "I can't find my detective game," Tom said cluelessly. "It's the season for giving," Tom said presently. "I just got elected to the U.S. House of Representatives," Tom said incongruously. "OK, I've put on the tourniquet," Tom said staunchly. "Of course I can make a harness out of leather straps," Tom bridled.

City Slickers

Hello World, Well, there are those lucky few out there (in the federal government, for instance) who enjoyed a long holiday weekend, in honor of Veterans Day last Saturday, but for most of us, that relic of the past is now a holiday more honored in the breach, as it were, and it was business as usual on Friday, alas. (That is, unless you wanted to do any banking, because it seems that banks nowadays will close at the drop of the proverbial hat, so to speak, while the rest of us working stiffs are dragging ourselves off to our jobs, as long as it doesn't involve any financial transactions that we normally would expect to take care of on the average workday.) But the important thing is to recognize the sacrifices of our selfless veterans throughout history, and appreciate all that they have done to protect the citizenry from the earliest days of bows and arrows, to the most modern times of satellites and robots, and everything in between, believe me. And let’s face it, when it comes to working on a day that used to be widely observed as a holiday, I believe it was the legendary Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman of Civil War fame, who wisely commented: “War is heck,” and he wasn't far off the mark, that’s for sure. Meanwhile on the local scene, Bill and I got our fill of live music recently, and lived to tell the tale, which is always my favorite way to go. The day began inauspiciously with bracing cold, high winds, and pelting rain, but luckily conditions had improved considerably by the time we boarded our train around 6:00 PM and headed to the city with the rest of the tourists at that hour. Once we reached the fabled Grand Central Terminal, we ambled over to Central Market for dinner, where we had been once before and found it much to our liking. Now I'm thinking that we must have had something different to eat previously, because this time around our meal of grilled cheese and French fries seemed pedestrian and mediocre, and would not motivate us to try the same place again – especially considering the wealth of food options in the lower concourse now. Another surprising feature of the train station was the prevalence of panhandlers (both inside and out on the sidewalks around the building) who the transit workers used to shoo out of the place like houseflies, but apparently not any longer. Frankly, many of us would not consider this any sort of an improvement, and I ought to know. Thus fortified, we steeled ourselves for the usual harrowing taxi ride downtown, complete with screeching tires and honking horns, and (by virtue of nothing else except a benevolent providence and divine intervention, no doubt) to say that we arrived unscathed and without incident only goes to prove that the Age of Miracles has not passed, indeed. We were dropped off (wobbly but still in one piece) in plenty of time to see Alex Wong and Megan Slankard together in concert at Rockwood Music Hall in the Lower East Side, and prepared to make the best of it, come what may. Alert readers may recall some of our previous visits to this venue, with long waits on scraggly lines outside the building, freezing our tootsies out on the cold hard pavement, and nowhere to sit down, once we did get inside, thanks not. This time around, it was much improved, as they let us right in to the building as soon as we got there, even though the previous performance wasn't finished yet, oddly enough. Then we providentially met someone we know from other shows we've been to, and he rather peremptorily snagged some seats for us in the cozy (one hesitates to say, cramped) chamber, so that we didn't even have to stand the entire time, and thanks ever so. In one corner, there is a tiny bar, and the floor sports a smattering of even tinier tables – and in fact, if you've ever enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner with the family at your grandparents’ house, this entire performance space would easily fit in their dining room. For this particular stage (Rockwood has 3 separate stages) they let everyone in at no charge, but there’s a 2-drink minimum, so it pretty much amounts to being the same thing overall. It must be said that in a place that size, obviously, there are no bad seats, and thanks to our table-grabbing colleague, we found ourselves positioned directly in front of the performers, so that if either one of them accidentally lost their balance, they basically would have landed smack-dab right in our laps – and not to mention, covered with ginger ale besides. It was a interesting show for lovers of indie music, and now thanks to novel funding sources like Patreon, these artists can have the opportunity to pursue their artistic ambitions, rather than starving in squalid garrets somewhere. Bill naturally brought some vegan dog treats for Alex’s renowned canine companion, Char the Wonder Pooch - and who I'm sure would have been enthusiastically welcomed at the show, except for the fact that they would have probably had to remove about 6 tables and a dozen chairs to squeeze him in there, I shouldn't wonder. In any case, we thought it was nice music (if a little too loud for our tastes) and a good time was had by all, so that was the key thing. It was all over by 9:00 PM, and we used the new taxi hailing app on Bill's phone to bring a cab right to our veritable doorstep (which was technically in front of a deli around the corner) for the trip back to Grand Central once again. In a rare case of perfect timing, we were able to get right on the train in the terminal, rather than lounging around killing time waiting for it, and we pulled up at home when it was still before 11:00 PM, and we were still awake, alert, and on our feet, remarkably enough. Let's face it, for some of us self-proclaimed geezers, going out to see live music down in the big city on a weeknight, that's what we would have to consider pretty hard core, which only goes to prove that we've still got it. We just can't remember where we put it, alas. Elle

The High Life

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves, a week after the confounded switch-over back to what is laughingly referred to as "Standard" Time (which nowadays has been squeezed into a tiny 16-week sliver down in the deep dark recesses of the year) and already, many of our clocks and other devices have been reset to actual real time, and not still on the inaptly named Daylight Saving Time. (Frankly, the only way I find this cockamamie nonsense saves any time is that my roaring red rover, the Aveo, has a dashboard clock that stays on Standard Time year-round [that ill-mannered snickering from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery is that they know it's only because I can't figure out how to change the time on the clock in the car] so once we reach this point in November, the car is already the right time, and I have nothing more to do, thank you very much.) Luckily for electronic devices - like computers, phones, and DVRs - that are programmed to change to the right time all by themselves, and save the rest of us all that trouble. I stand by my contention that centuries from now, people are going to look back on this period in amazement that we put ourselves through this infernal nuisance twice every year, until we finally came to our senses (one hopes!) and picked one time that we could all agree on, and just left it at that. After all, everybody all over the world despises the confusion and inconvenience of the dastardly DST, including plants, livestock, and wildlife, so that pretty much covers just about everything, I dare say. Not so fast! We get the following tidbit from Bill, via an online newsletter that he subscribes to, weighing in on the very subject in question: ===================================== Let's look at the sport of golf as one example. It's impossible for me to even squeeze in 9 holes before daylight savings [sic] time hits. But after the change I can easily get 9 in - maybe more if I skip out of the office a little early. I read that DST is worth about $200 to $400 million to the golf industry alone. How about shopping? It turns out they did studies and found that people spend more during daylight. Maybe that's why the most active lobby for DST is the Chamber of Commerce on behalf of retailers. ====================================== Bill goes on to say, "I can't remember reading/hearing about the daylight shopping thing, but I certainly would never have thought of the golf interaction. So much for getting the business sector on board the Ban Daylight Saving Time bandwagon. Oh well." Honestly, for as unpopular as it is, I'm surprised that nobody has started the Anti-DST Party (their slogan: "We Have Standards") with that as their platform. Sign me up! In other seasonal news, many of us were surprised to see the Houston Astros win their first World Series in franchise history, since the club was first established in 1962, and possibly all the sweeter for being 55 years in the making, I shouldn't wonder. Of course, the fabled Dodgers founded in Brooklyn all the way back in 1883 are old hands at the World Series, with 19 appearances, and winning the trophy 5 times, so there's always tomorrow for them. Out on the turf, the injury-plagued Giants are staring down the tubes as a 1-7 lost season washes away, while the plucky Jets continue to play better than their 4-5 record would indicate. On the other hand, a cursory glance at the standings would show that this season appears to be more of a struggle for even the usual powerhouse teams, with middling records in all divisions - except for the improbable Philadelphia Eagles, running away with it at 8-1 already. On the boards, the 5-7 Nets actually trail the surprisingly revitalized Knicks in the standings, where the unlikely Kristaps Porzingas has brought them to a respectable 6-5 after taking charge of the offense in Carmelo Anthony's absence. On the slipperier side of things, the Rangers are trying their best to stay relevant at 9-7, including a 6-game winning streak that the fans can hope is a harbinger of better things to come. After all, this is all we have, until those three most beautiful words in the English language: "Pitchers and Catchers," on February 13, 2018. Count me in! Speaking of sports, you could have knocked me right over when I was looking at the TV listings in our local newspaper, and found the long-established Broadway Blueshirts, the storied New York Rangers of lore and legend, supposedly playing something called the Las Vegas Golden Knights, of all things. (???) Surely this would be one of those promotional events with souvenir jerseys, where some of the Rangers bench players face off against a pick-up group of sturdy police officers and firemen, all in the name of some worthy charity. Once again, not so fast! It seems that the Las Vegas Golden Knights are actually a professional ice hockey team, oddly enough, that seems to have appeared out of nowhere (as opposed to an existing franchise that relocated to a different city) for this season in the NHL. In fact, they won their first 3 games out of the chute (a record for an expansion team) and are currently in second place in their division with an impressive 10-5 record to claim as their own. Originally there were 2 teams slated to be accepted for expansion this season, the Golden Knights and a resurrection of the defunct Quebec Nordiques, but so far, only Las Vegas has completed the approval process. Unfortunately, this leaves the league in a sort of lopsided arrangement with an uneven distribution of 31 teams across 4 conferences, 3 of which have 8 teams, and the poor forlorn Western conference with only 7, alas. I have no idea how they're going to make this work mathematically with the schedule, and the playoffs will no doubt present their own arithmetic challenges on top of it all, I would think. Of course, with The New Math nowadays, I suppose that anything is possible, so I'm sure we're all glad to welcome the Golden Knights with open arms, and the heck with the numerologists. Alright, everybody, let's break out those slide rules! Meanwhile at work, in the so-called office area at the top of the garage, there was a motley assortment of ramshackle furniture and business equipment cast-offs of every description, including the old derelict executive chair behind the desk. It was threadbare and tottering, with casters on the bottom like supermarket carts, so that it never rolled in the direction that you wanted it to go, but veered off at any tangential angle that appealed to it. Finally age caught up to it, and it collapsed in resignation, and even the construction company management despaired of renovating it - which I realized when I came in to work one day and found it had been unceremoniously relegated to the Dumpster in the parking lot. Then there appeared a brand new model in a fancy box from Staples, and after it was assembled (and very professionally, I might add) it turned out to be rather nice and comfy, as well as a giant improvement over the previous version. But it didn't take long to notice that the seat is higher than it was on the old one, with the significant disadvantage that the whole chair rolls backwards while I'm trying to sit down in it, and I don't mind saying, thanks ever so much not. As a result, I find that I basically have to throw myself backwards into it, while holding onto the arms, just to sit down, and it goes without saying that this maneuver gets really old, really quickly, especially by the end of the day. A related corollary to this situation is that once I'm seated, my feet can't reach the floor, so I'm left with the option of maneuvering the chair around by grabbing onto the nearby furniture, and pushing or pulling myself in the direction I want to go. It occurred to me later that the result of all this is making me feel like Edith Ann from the old "Laugh-In" show (for all of you youngsters out there, ask your grandparents about that) and only need the pigtails and freckles to pull it all together. Although, frankly, it occurs to me that stilts might be a better idea all around, and as Edith Ann always said, " ... and that's the truth!" Elle

Rock Hard

Hello World, Happy Halloween! The ghouls and goblins were out in force on Tuesday, lending just the right air of spookiness to the occasion, and giving us all a chance to encounter witches and monsters on a personal basis, hopefully of the pint-size variety, and not otherwise. (Or perhaps that should be “other-worldly,” under the circumstances.) Anyone in the local area can tell you that the weather around here has been all over the map, since I don't know when, and it does no good to complain, heaven knows. But for the purposes of trick-or-treating, the weather on Tuesday was remarkably good, all things considered, with conditions that were clear as a bell and a bit cool, without being too cold for comfort. Back in the day, the dinosaurs and I would have considered this tailor-made for traipsing around the neighborhood in costumes, and that’s not just the candy corn talking, believe me. It's at times like this that I actually most miss working at the old Employer of Last Resort, where dressing up and parading around the campus for the entertainment of colleagues and visitors usually turned out to be a veritable barrel of monkeys from beginning to end. It's true that I could certainly wear a costume to the garage where I'm working now, but since I basically only see at most 2 other people all week, it really would not be the same thing at all. But I do get home earlier than I used to, so I have some extra time to get ready for doorbell-ringing revelers, which is good in its own way, I suppose. Of course, I make sure to leave a bowl of candy in the vestibule early in the morning anyway, in case anyone stops by before I get home to begin with. After that, the first order of business is always clearing all the clutter off of the front porch, and then sweeping off the steps and walk for unwary visitors, especially in the dark and perhaps wearing masks and the like. On the inside, I set up a table by the door with a Halloween tablecloth, bowl of candy, pad and pencil, and other necessities, plus moving stuff out of the line of fire, like boxes of paper recycling or 50 pounds of ice melt, thanks not. Once that's out of the way, I tuck into a "hurry-up" bagel for dinner, and stay near the door for any early birds on the prowl while it's still light out. I find that they usually don't start coming around until about 6:00 PM or so, and luckily I'm generally finished with my preparations by then. True to form, my first callers were at 6:15 PM, with a toddler dressed as a baby faun, who was just way too adorable for words, I assure you. I won't say they came thick and fast after that, but we had reached 20 by 7:00 PM, which I thought was a good sign. Let's face it, all of that Halloween candy wasn't going to eat itself, after all. In an interesting weather-related anomaly, I realized when I was sweeping twigs and seed pods off the steps and sidewalk that there really weren't any leaves to speak of, since they were mostly still on the trees due to the unseasonably warm weather - in fact, even before the 31st, the meteorologists had said this was well on its way to being the warmest October on record, since they first began keeping records back in the Stone Age. (It was Thak who invented the Weather Rock, so that if it was wet, you knew it was raining, or if it was swinging, you knew it was windy, and if you couldn't see it, then it was night. He was truly ahead of his time.) I hadn't realized up until then how much I counted on the copious carpet of dead leaves underfoot to alert me of costumed travelers coming my way, because I could hear their feet crackling through the fallen leaves all the way from the end of the driveway, giving me plenty of time to get up and make it to the door ahead of them, without trying to out-pace Olympic track star Usain Bolt, and vault over the furniture to get there. Fortunately, I had some luck with a different sort of early warning system, and that was our corral of cosseted kitties, who it must be said, rarely exhibit any useful qualities whatsoever, and if we're being honest, ordinarily go in quite the opposite direction altogether, and once again, thanks so very much not. But with their superior hearing abilities, even from inside the house, they heard the faintest sounds of approaching strangers, and instantaneously flew out of wherever they were, to get out of harm's way while the getting was good. They were right on the mark every time, and all I had to do was hear mad scrambling cat paws, to know it was time to head for the door. In retrospect, it's easy to say, "I love it when a plan comes together," but this was more or less a serendipitous coincidence every step of the way. This apparently was not a year of a break-out must-have costume, so the field was wide open for whatever else anyone wanted to choose. Of course, nowadays there are so many costumes based on contemporary movies, toys, or video games that I just don't recognize (like Paw Patrol, The Descendants, or Zhu Zhu pets) and even when they try to explain to me who they are, it's still nothing but gibberish to me. Alert readers may recall the congenial Emmett from down the block, who was wearing one of these unrecognizable costumes (might have been something called "Dementor" from the Harry Potter books) but who announced himself by name, so as to make sure that I knew it was him under all that. I was surprised to have only 1 Spiderman, 1 Flash, and 1 Supergirl as my only super heroes, without a single Batman in sight, for a change. "Star Wars" was represented by Luke Skywalker, Yoda, and 2 young ladies as the irrepressible Rey. There was 1 witch, 1 Tinkerbell, 1 M&M, a cat, a monkey, Minnie Mouse, 2 zombies, and 5 skeletons. I think my favorite was a youngster who was improbably dressed as a 1950’s waitress (and was likely herself born in 2007, if that) and I told her flat out that she was way too young to understand anything about that costume, including the pointy "cat eye" frame glasses and the requisite pencil stuck strategically in her hair bun. It was actually pretty funny in its own merrily anachronistic way. Although I was prepared to wait it out longer, it was basically all over by 8:45 PM, like turning off a switch, and everyone out there mysteriously and telepathically all heads for hearth and home at the same moment. Well, that is except for a late surge of 5 un-costumed youths just after 9:00, who jovially declared themselves to be variously “college students” or “male models,” and apparently not too old (or jaded) to indulge in the age-old joys of the season from their youth, once again. Of course, I'm happy to recognize the importance of higher education, and they were more than welcome to some fun-size candy treats to sustain them in their studies, however arduous (or not) they might be. After the dust had finally settled, we had a disappointing turn-out of only 38 visitors all told, especially considering that the weather was so fine. It was easily the worst numbers in any year without a significant weather event, like Superstorm Sandy in 2012, or the terrorist attacks in 2001, and a far cry from the 100+ throngs that we used to see back in the good old days. (Well, 1998 and 1999, anyway.) Now I find myself stuck with bags full of left-over Halloween candy, and no vultures in the Purchasing department to pounce upon it at work, as in previous times, often cleaning out the whole kit and kaboodle before lunch, by golly. In any case, that was our holiday from the old homestead, and at least nobody fell off the porch and swallowed up by the rampant alien mutant poison ivy, never to be seen again, and I ought to know. At this point, I realize that I can't see the Weather Rock, so I know it must be late, and I should wrap this up. If you're on the hunt for left-over candy, try your local hospital - although if it's anything like here, be prepared to fight off the vultures for it. Tell them Thak sent you. Elle