Name Dropping

Hello World,     Happy July! Sunday is the first day of July already, as we move into the summer season in earnest, and cram it all full of the fun and fancy-free activities that we've been waiting all year for. That could include travel, educational opportunities, or just enjoying some unstructured time to relax and refresh. Unbelievably, summer will be over sooner than you know it, so the important thing to remember is that there is no wrong way to make the most of it. After all, we don't want to suddenly look up in September and wonder how it all got away from us. Sand castles, anyone?     On my way to work last week, I noticed a deli along the way with one of those changeable message boards in the window, listing their specials of the day, and other enticements to get me through their doors, and bring my wallet with me, while I'm at it. I can tell you that wasn't going to work, if their lunch special was any indication, which was a slice of pizza and what they described as "2 LITTER SODA" to go along with it. Frankly, I've got more than enough litter at home as it is, without going out and paying for more of it, thanks not.     Meanwhile at church, I'm sure that everyone will be gratified to hear that we are close personal friends with no less a retail behemoth than Home Depot, of all things, and that's not just a lot of nuts and bolts, believe me. We have a credit card issued by them, for routine supplies such as trash bags, paper towels, light bulbs, and the like, as well as discounted seasonal items like Easter lilies, poinsettias, Christmas trees, and holiday decorations. The account is made out to "Holy Trinity Lutheran," and we recently received an important mailing from their corporate headquarters, that started off with the most congenial greeting, "Hi Holy, here's a check for the credit balance refund on your revolving charge card account ....." Obviously, anyone could see that we're on a first-name basis with our friends at the hardware giant, and they just go ahead and call us simply Holy, without standing on ceremony or anything. (Although I'm not really sure if addressing it to us as "Mr./Ms. Lutheran" would have been much of any improvement, to be honest.) I suppose it's nice to know that they have developed such an intimate bond and familiarity with us that they feel no compulsion to use our whole name on any business correspondence. Hi Holy, indeed.     On the entertainment scene, we threw caution to the wind last Saturday, and joined the happy (hour) crowd at The City Winery to enjoy the musical stylings of Buster Poindexter in person on their tiny stage. (And I'm glad to report that I would have lost a bet with the position that you couldn't fit Buster and a 5-piece band on a stage that small.) Probably only people who were following punk rock in 1971 would have any recollection of the New York Dolls, but you can believe me (and our old friends the dinosaurs, for that matter) when I say that they were a Very Big Deal at the time, especially in the local area. Their lead singer was a lanky young man named David Johansen, whose multi-faceted baritone was way over-qualified for fronting a punk rock band, but that never slowed him down. (Alert viewers might have also spotted David in movies such as "Scrooged" or "Let It Ride," where his broad comedy would make you wonder if he hadn't missed his calling altogether.) In his spare time, just for fun, David created a new persona, the outdated and somewhat delusional failed lounge singer, Buster Poindexter, and took him out on the road to small venues and resorts, with an odd mix of oldies, novelty tunes, and lesser-known selections from the bottom-of-the-barrel pages of the Great American Songbook. (Probably just about everybody, not just alert listeners, has heard Buster's legendary "Hot! Hot! Hot!" as it played almost incessantly across the radio airwaves, from the time it was released in 1987,right up until today.) Buster was in fine form on Saturday, singing the obscure and the fondly remembered alike, and for everybody who can't get enough of "Zombie Jamboree," this show would have been right up your proverbial alley, I can tell you that. We dragged a couple of friends with us as well, and they were very tolerant throughout, considering that this type of music was not exactly their cup of tea. Luckily all of our connections worked very well, between the various trains and taxis - and even the cab rides weren't their usual harrowing and death-defying horror show, so that was even better. We also enjoyed a tasty meal of flat-bread pizza and their signature hand-cut French fries, one of the real advantages of a concert venue that also serves food, and thanks ever so. We had no trouble getting there and back, and even shuffled back into Grand Central just in time to catch the train home, which was a good thing, since we still didn't get home until almost midnight anyway. And let's face it, any later than that, and we would turn into our own version of Zombie Jamboree, and nobody wants to see that, I can promise you. Anyway, that's my story, and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't - Hi Holy

Pole Position

Hello World,     Well, where does the time go, I ask you that. Thursday ushered in another season for us to enjoy, featuring those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, with all the sun, surf, and sand that entails, and don't spare the watermelon and hammocks, my good man! I'm sure all of our friends the Druids (and you know who you are!) were at their observation posts for the summer solstice on Thursday morning, lining up as it does with the archeological markers and monoliths from time immemorial (or even the more contemporary ones, like Manhattan-henge) and thrilling the hearts of celestial observers the world over. Of course, the summer solstice brings with it the longest day of the year, with more than 15 hours of sunlight, and each day after that becomes incrementally shorter, with later sunrises and earlier sunsets as it goes along. Or as Bill pointed out at the time, "It's all downhill from here."     And speaking of important days, last week brought us Flag Day on the 14th, a day we set aside to recognize Old Glory in all its, well, glory - because as George M. Cohan so eloquently put it, "Every heart beats true for the red, white, and blue." It was a pleasant day to commemorate the star-spangled banner of lore and legend, and The Flag Brigade was right on the mark, running up the colors upstairs and downstairs, and lending a refreshingly patriotic air to the improvement of the neighborhood, that Betsy Ross herself would have been sure to appreciate, by George. And on the topic of colorful improvements to the yard, I can't forget to mention our lovely astilbe in the flowerbeds, jolly day-lilies along the driveway, and especially the spectacular Easter lilies in the back yard, exploding in vibrant yellows and pinks that appear much too sensational to be real. After all, everyone knows that you can't believe anything that's too good to be true, and I ought to know.     And when it comes to things that seem impossible to be real, it reminds me of some curious sights I've been seeing around town lately, and not something that I can whole-heartedly endorse, try as I might. Apparently you can go to the store and buy flexible plastic signs that announce FOR RENT in large letters at the top, and then have a space to include the phone number for people to contact if they're interested. Presumably, someone would post this on a wall if they had an apartment or storefront available, or perhaps out in the yard if the house was for rent. However, a couple of times now I've found these rental signs more or less loose out on the sidewalk - once on a telephone pole and once on a tree - with nothing else but the phone number, which really begs more questions than it answers, it seems to me. The signs make it look like it's the pole or the tree for rent, which frankly makes less than no sense at all, as if they needed to come with instructions to put the signs on whatever is for rent, and not just attach them to random objects in the vicinity. That kind of scatter-shot thinking reminds me of a movie review about a recent kidnap film, explaining the predicament as follows: "Shaun is put through the ringer as she attempts to break back into the house to get her kids ... " Believe me, I know how she feels. (You youngsters out there can go ahead and ask your grandparents about wringer washers, which is obviously what the movie reviewer should have done before handing in that piece, I dare say.) Of course, it goes without saying that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and not looking to improve any time soon, by all appearances. Maybe renting out trees and telephone poles isn't such a bad idea after all.     Meanwhile on the topic of good news, earlier this week, we were glad to accept an invitation for the annual patient appreciation dinner from one of Bill's healthcare providers, which we have been to before, and always a festive affair. This time around, it was at an old favorite of ours, the Renaissance Westchester Hotel in West Harrison, so they certainly didn't have to ask us twice, I can tell you that. Because it was scheduled to begin at 6:00 PM, and we were concerned about rush-hour traffic on the highways, we left ourselves plenty of travel time, and since there wasn't any, arrived extremely early. Our hosts were more than ready for us, and many other early birds as well, with drinks and snacks in a cozy alcove full of comfortable chairs while we waited. Bill reminded me that the event had been at the same hotel the previous year, and in the ballroom, it seemed like we were even at the same table as before, although not with the same cohorts. Our table-mates this time were a convivial and lively bunch, and it didn't take long for us to get on like the proverbial house afire, as it were. We started with dinner rolls and Caesar salad to go with the welcoming remarks, provided by no less than the Vice Chair of Clinical Activities, of all things, so you can be sure that we gave it our complete and undivided rapt attention, and deservedly so. It gave us high hopes for what was yet to come.     By contrast, the Keynote Address was not only desperately dull and technologically inept, but about as depressing as you could possibly imagine - and could only have been more appropriately delivered by the by the Director of the Morgue, rather than what they described as an Assistant Attending in the Department of Psychiatry. (And where you would think they would certainly know better, for heaven's sake.) It seemed particularly odd to us, because on the previous occasions, the Keynote was so fascinating and idealistic you couldn't help but stand up and cheer. Fortunately, we had an excellent dinner, and worth going out for - in fact, two of our table-mates were of the opinion that our substitute dinner looked better than their standard fare, so much so that they determined in the future to request the vegetarian option instead. Regrettably, the same thing happened with the address by the Patient Speaker, whose hair-raising tale of illness, treatment, and recovery left us feeling more alarmed than awed, while on the previous occasions, this personal testimonial was so uplifting and inspirational that no miracle seemed too far-fetched. And like modern-day Druids at Manhattan-henge, this is something that I think we can all agree to run up the flagpole and salute, by golly. Elle

Crown Jewels

Hello World,     Happy Fathers Day! Sunday would be the perfect time to give dear old Dad his due, and then some, with extra awesome sauce for good measure, and don't spare that cherry on top, while you're at it, by golly. Not every father is handy around the house, or good at sports, or quick with a joke, but each and every one of them can be celebrated for what they are good at, whatever that may be. Of course, sometimes you really have to wonder. Last week on The Golf Channel, the studio announcers were discussing the upcoming U.S. Open at Shinnecock Hills on Long Island, and how players can be affected in big tournaments, letting the pressure get to them, so that even simple short putts become dicey, and chipping out of a bunker can easily turn into a disaster. One of them wrapped it up by commenting: "This is where nerves start to show their face." (!!!) Honestly, do these people even listen to themselves when they speak??? It goes without saying that you don't know whether to laugh or cry, and wailing and gnashing of teeth might not be out of the question either, I dare say. Back to the drawing board with you, pal.     Of course, the big news of the month was when the unthinkable happened on Saturday, and media darling Justify claimed the Triple Crown at Belmont, one might say in decisive fashion, going wire-to-wire, and continuing to pull away from the pack at the finish. This marks the 2nd Triple Crown in 3 years, with American Pharoah in 2015 - or looked at another way, the 2nd Triple Crown in 40 years from the time of the previous winner in 1978. After charging through the slop at the Kentucky Derby, and the fog at the Preakness Stakes, I wondered how the inexperienced colt would respond to the clear and dry conditions at the Belmont, but I needn't have worried after all. Justify bolted out of the gate, took the lead, and it was never a horse race after that. I thought Bravazo, who chased him around the two previous races, would give it more of the old college try than was evident on the track that is affectionately known as The Big Sandy - and in the meantime, the handicappers lined up behind Hofberg (who skipped the Preakness altogether) - but in the end, it was the unsung Gronkowski who finished second, with Bravazo a distant 6th out of the 10-horse field. Justify takes his place in thoroughbred history, becoming only the 2nd horse (after Seattle Slew) to win the Triple Crown while being undefeated in his racing career. And after American Pharoah, and now Justify, I think we can well and truly lay to rest the long-standing curse of Affirmed, once and for all, and give his unquiet evil spirit a chance to hang up his horseshoes at long last. [Insert diabolical horse laugh here.] Yeah, I'm not buying it either.     In other sports news, it all came true as hypothesized, as the scrappy Golden State Warriors went ahead and swept the vaunted Cleveland Cavaliers in 4 games last Friday, making it look easy while snagging back-to-back NBA titles. In fact, these same 2 teams have clashed in the last 4 final series, with the Warriors winning it all in 2015, 2017 and 2018, and the Cavaliers taking the trophy in 2016. The Cavaliers were founded in 2012, and can already claim 4 appearances in the Finals, which is a pretty good percentage. On the other hand, their West Coast rivals began life as the Philadelphia Warriors in 1947, and won the title in their first season, as well as 1956, which is also nothing to sneeze at. Of course, all of this is small potatoes compared with the mighty Boston Celtics and Los Angeles Lakers, who have carried off a total of 33 trophies between them, and nobody is even remotely close to achieving those numbers, then or now. And all of that was without the evil spirit of Affirmed, mind you.     Meanwhile in the wonderful world of business and industry, I was driving to work last week, and found myself beside a sturdy white van replete with a full complement of extension ladders piled on top of the roof, and looking for all the world like it was planning to go do some serious work somewhere, and plenty of it. On all sides of the exterior, it had been very carefully and professionally printed with the following message: COMMERCIAL / RESIDENTIAL     However, one couldn't help but notice that it completely and utterly neglected to mention the name of the business in any way, or what business they might be in, of which ladders were obviously an integral part. (I couldn't keep from thinking that at least a picture would have helped.) But I still thought that it was reassuring to know that whoever they were, and whatever they might do, they were prepared to meet all of my potential commercial or residential needs, regardless of whatever those needs may or may not hypothetically be. That is, as long as it's not truck painting, obviously. Elle

The Magic Touch

Hello World,     Well, it seems that the time has certainly come, as it surely must, when we can say that June is busting out all over, and as inconceivable as it may seem, even the recalcitrant weather has started cooperating, at long last. In fact, around here The Flag Brigade found the conditions pleasant enough to actually run up the colors for Memorial Day (observed) on Monday, as well as traditional Decoration Day on the 30th, for good measure - and not to have to go scampering out to pull them back in ahead of the usual thunderstorms, blizzards, hurricanes, Nor'easters, hailstorms, tornadoes, earthquakes, plagues of locusts, fire and brimstone, or worse, by golly. Unfortunately, this happened to work against anyone hoping for a rain-out as the latest Subway Series got underway this weekend, with the hapless 27-33 Mets taking on the division-leading 41-18 Yankees, with not too much in the Amazins' favor, including the math, alas.     Now that it's getting to be the middle of June, we're finally starting to wrap things up in winter sports like basketball and hockey, and not a moment too soon, I dare say. It seems that the stalwart Washington Capitals dashed the Cinderella hopes of the plucky Las Vegas Golden Knights, and skated away with their first Stanley Cup in franchise history, after 43 seasons. On the hoops side of things, the Warriors are having their way with the Cavaliers so far, in surprising fashion, and could close it out with a sweep on Friday night - but if there's one thing we've all long since learned about the playoffs over the years, it would be not to order those commemorative championship jerseys before that last game is over and done with, no matter how much it may look like a sure thing ahead of time, believe me. Let's face it, 70 years after the DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN headlines, that newspaper has yet to live it down.     And speaking of sports ahead of time, we find ourselves perched on the very brink of the Belmont Stakes on Saturday evening, and staring down both barrels of horse racing's rendezvous with destiny in the offing, as it were, or hypothetically may be. Of course, it goes without saying that the whole world is agog any time there's a potential Triple Crown to be had, especially since they've been so few and far between over what seems like centuries that they've been doing this sort of thing. (Technically speaking, there have been 12 in about 140 years or thereabouts, so they're certainly no run-of-the-mill occurrence, that's for sure.) And it also goes without saying that while I certainly wish Justify all the best in his endeavors at chasing the elusive prize, I personally I wouldn't turn my back on the evil spirit of Affirmed, and that's putting it mildly, and with decades worth of cautionary tales (I'm talking about you, War Emblem) to show for it. If Justify somehow manages to pull this off, it would be the 2nd Triple Crown in 3 years (who could ever forget American Pharoah in 2015) whereas before that, there hadn't been one since way back in 1978. And after all this time, it would seriously make me think that the evil spirit of Affirmed had really turned over a new leaf, or finally gotten a different hobby, or something. And once again, not a moment too soon, I dare say.     Any confirmed old curmudgeon who doesn't believe in magic, and wants to continue in that opinion, should at all costs avoid the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center, where they have staged an impressive revival of "My Fair Lady," of all things, that is so over-stuffed with stardust and wonder, that it would charm the socks off of the marble representation of the namesake explorer in nearby Columbus Circle, and leaving his proverbial tootsies exposed for all the world to see.  Bill and I tossed off our workaday shackles on Wednesday to treat ourselves to the matinee, and to say that it was "loverly" would be such an understatement of epic proportions, that mere words would be hopelessly inadequate, I can assure you. The cozy theater (1,200 seats) has not a bad seat in the house - although it should be pointed out that you can actually reserve a seat that is somewhat TOO close, so that you find yourself with your legs technically UNDER the stage, and looking up the nostrils of the players as they strut about above you, thanks not. The stage features an interesting "turn-table" mechanism, so that the action and sets rotate around in front of you, giving a varied and evolving perspective on the business at hand, which otherwise would seem decidedly static. The production is as fresh and lively as if Lerner & Loewe had just jotted it off last month, and features the considerable talents of Lauren Ambrose and Harry Hadden-Paton in the lead roles (seen on television and movies, as well as from stages on both sides of the Atlantic) and even the estimable Diana Rigg, lending an imperial air to the proceedings. It was truly magical from beginning to end, and even the usual petty annoyances of train, taxi, crowds, and inedibles, couldn't help but fade into trivialities in its wake, and soon forgotten. And unlike the evil spirit of Affirmed, I think this is exactly the kind of extra-special magic that we can all jump up and applaud. Loverly, indeed. Elle

Alive and Kicking

Hello World,     Happy June! I know it doesn't seem remotely possible that we could already be in the sixth month of the year, heaven knows, but I'm afraid that's exactly where we find ourselves at this point, believe it or not. Of course, the weather doesn't bear mentioning, it's so ridiculous, but we have at least the promise of more beautiful flowers ahead of it, even still. Our poor purple allium did not do well this year, but our buttercups have been nothing but outstanding on all fronts, and a cheerier sight would be hard to come by. The flowerbeds continue to enthrall, with masses of dense bugleweed, colorful cranes bill, and enchanting bunches of lily of the valley holding its own against all comers. Here, we do not complain about our wild rosebushes, which are putting on a show all over the yard, and we also remember to be grateful for our neighbors' spirea and flowering almond spilling over our rock walls, making our yard not only look better but smell better, and all with absolutely no effort on our part, thank you very much.     For those folks with a need for speed, the venerable Indianapolis 500 roared into town right on time last Sunday, in the sweltering Midwest heat, and blistering speeds to match. A veteran driver with the unlikely name of Will Power capped off a decorated career with a win at The Brickyard, in the 102nd running of the event. He somehow managed to elude the numerous crashes that knocked several fan favorites out of the picture - such as Helio Castroneves and Tony Kanaan - and unfortunately in her final professional race, Danica Patrick slammed into the Turn 2 wall in Lap 68 and finished in 30th place. Over the years, she's been a tireless ambassador for her sport, and deserved a better swan song than that - although admittedly, she's probably just as glad they won't have her to kick around anymore. You go, girl!     In other sports news, expansion darlings Las Vegas and Washington are all knotted up in the Stanley Cup finals, with plenty of nail-biting action to come, before someone skates away with the prize. Over on the hoops side of things, the Cavaliers and Warriors are slugging it out on the boards, where despite a 50-point effort from LeBron James, all by his own self, the Cavs still managed to lose the opening game in overtime, thanks not. Meanwhile, it was the Boys of Summer who brought me one of my favorite sports stories in a good long while. Yankees shortstop Didi Gregorius started out the year playing well, but then tailed off, until he reached a point that he was mired in a woeful 0-30 slump at the plate. In one recent game, he managed to smack a little bleeder through the infield, and just barely beat it out to first base ahead of the throw. I can tell you that nobody expected him to call time out and ask the umpire for the ball after that. The stadium absolutely fell to pieces, and the announcers laughed so hard that they couldn't even breathe, much less speak. Joy in Mudville, indeed.     Of course, as everybody knows by now, if the Memorial Day weekend has come and gone, also coming and going along with it must have been my sister's famous BBQ in the woods, with its many thousands of her closest friends and relatives, colleagues, associates, acquaintances, cohorts, kindly strangers, wayfaring adventurers, and space aliens from far distant planets as well. My other sister Diane and I headed up there on Saturday morning, and not a lick of traffic, so that was a fortunate thing. We didn't care much for the weather, and frankly, it only got worse from Saturday to Sunday, so it certainly did not come through with the beach-going conditions that anybody might have hoped for, that's for sure. In spite of overcast skies, it still managed to be 90 degrees in the shade, and things were pretty uncomfortable, even if all you were doing was lounging around in lawn chairs, sipping a cool beverage without a care in the world. (Or universe, for that matter.) With the property awash in a surging sea of humanity, and assorted whatnot, admittedly it's a big job to greet everyone quickly, and also keep on top of the passing time, so we can make sure to leave at a reasonable hour. Not so fast! This time around, Diane and I elected to stay overnight at the nearby Quality Inn in Kingston, so we were basically under no time pressure at all, which made everything much more relaxed all around. We went back to the hotel after dinner, and found it as quiet and comfortable as we could have wanted, plus with a handy buffet breakfast on site, that was just the ticket to get us up on our feet and out the door in the morning. Sunday brought yet even more friends, relatives, kindly strangers, and space aliens, in spite of the rain, and it didn't seem to put a damper on the variety of craft projects underway, or the rollicking games of horseshoes, ping pong, Frisbee, volleyball, or what-have-you, I can tell you that. (Although after 46 years of hosting this shindig, it must be said that the Klingons have yet to get the hang of weaving lanyards, no matter how hard they try.) When it was finally time to pack up in earnest, we were glad that we had a chance to see so many more guests than usual, when we would have normally left early on Saturday instead, and not enjoyed ourselves nearly as much. We stopped at Denny's on the way home, which is always a treat, and even got a lanyard from the Romulans tossed in while we were there. Personally, I think they were just showing off. My favorite story from the BBQ came from an unlikely quarter. Our hostess had made a special trip over to me right from the start, to assure me that in the event that I didn't care for what was cooking on the grill, there were plenty of different options in the kitchen, that might be more to my liking, and I need only say the word, and it would be heated up for me on the spot. "Oh no," I averred, "I'm one of those people, if I eat a lot in the middle of the day, I'll be sound asleep all the rest of the afternoon, no matter how I try to avoid it." I said I appreciated her culinary efforts on my behalf, but I would stick with a small and simple sandwich that I brought from home, and leave it at that. I was hoping that sounded diplomatic and not uneasy, although I have the feeling that it all became moot, as it turned out. If she happened to glance over in our direction about 10 minutes later, she would have discovered both my other sister and myself, fully stretched out on recliners and dead to the world, out like the proverbial light and busily sawing wood in the midst of noisy revelers, teams playing games, children scampering, campers setting up tents, group photos, planting flowers, and Chinese community singing - and not to mention, virtual armies full of helpers carrying food, tables, drinks, and utensils from one end of creation to the other. Obviously, I could have saved myself the pretty speeches, and simply said that I would most likely just fall asleep anyway, no matter what I ate, and given it up as a lost cause. Sort of like the Klingons and lanyards, I dare say. Elle