smh

I thought Bradley Cooper's boss in "American Hustle" looked vaguely familiar, thought it might be because he kind of looked like my father.  Then I read the actor was none other than Louis C.K.  I'd venture to say his was the most believable work in the movie, disregarding the flaws in the plot.  But why?  I have the thought that the movie might be pure, out and out farce, and that I somehow missed the point.....

American-----Hustled

I went, I saw, and now I must write:   "American Hustle,"  the movie, is a gigantic hoax perpetrated on a willing public.  Almost all the critics gave it glowing reviews, so it follows that it must be a great movie.  Except it is not.  Jennifer Lawrence's performance is being touted as being Oscar worthy.  She is placed in a scenery-chewing part *which has little tie-in with the character she plays, so I think her performance could be equaled by any actress asked to emote, or overact.  Part of the film's appeal is an admittedly complicated plot, and I'm not a film critic, so I will go no further there other than to say you'd have to see the movie to realize how poorly made it is.  I thought help was on the way when one of the actors pulled out a gun, but, alas, no one got shot.
     * At one point, for no obvious reason, Lawrence confronts, and argues with,  her husband's "whore" and inexplicably lands a big kiss on her lips.   No one  could see that coming, so I guess it's great acting.

Hot Dog

Didn't that soldier from Valatie who brought the white dog home from Afghanistan actually steal it? 

The River and the Barrel

     When we were little kids, our family didn't have much, as was true for most of the people we knew, but I still felt connected to the world in certain ways.  There was a song, probably uttered by Uncle Joe, who didn't actually sing, but would sing-song as we followed him around as he diverted water rivulets with his hoe and cultivated his rhubarb patch.  One song had the words, "You can't holler down my rain barrel, or slide down my cellar door," and we had both a rain barrel and a cellar door.  I have vague memories of hollering down our rain barrel, and it seems likely we did slide down the cellar door, or try to at least.  A few years later, we sang, in school, "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go."  My grandmother did indeed live over the river, and for years we actually got there via "Wood Road."  I felt a little disappointed that we didn't go there by horse and sleigh, but I'd realized times had changed.  And we were always warmly welcomed, and there was often pie, so we were part of the world, as far as I could see. 
    It's odd that a connection to the world at large could have been forged from such a slender basis, but that now, with so many outreach options available, isolation prevails.
   
    

Bringing it Home

Last night I dreamt that I'd won a prize, part of which was a large amount, packets and packets, of bacon.  I was trying to convince prospective takers that microwaving it would reduce the badness of it considerably.  No one seemed to believe me.

Kennedy Center Honors----smh

     I watched most of the Kennedy Center Honors show.  I know it's a serious honor, but the ribbons the honorees wear around their necks remind me so much of Mork from Ork's  suspenders.  I wonder if any of them feel the same.  Supreme Court Judge Sotomayor introduced someone I thought I'd never heard of but then recognized the name Martina Arroyo when someone else pronounced it, without so many syllables and trills.
     I thought the Billy Joel segment was the best, but I may be biased because I have seen his live performance twice, once at the Carrier Dome when David was attending Syracuse, and then at The Pepsi, from a seat so high in the rafters that Billy was just a black speck.  I can't believe I'm writing this, but I thought Garth Brooks stole the show, performance wise.  He looked really great, in the best black tailored suit and cowboy hat I've ever seen.  He sang "Allentown" maybe a little bit better than Billy Joel, so could be that's why Billy looked so sad.  Though he does seem to have some degree of inflammation in his right eye. 
     When I heard the introduction for Rufus Wainwright, my first thought was that he was dead, but then I realized that no, that was Jeff Buckley who'd died after recording Hallelujah.  I was momentarily confused because that's the only song I ever heard Rufus sing.  But he sang "Piano Man" instead.  That was the closing number, and Billy Joel did smile, but maybe just because that meant the end of his seat in the balcony.  (I just heard that Sotomayor is going to drop the ball on New Year's Eve in Times Square.  Shouldn't she be studying about precedents or something?

Appetite Enhancer

Just musing-------there must be something about the sound of a dishwasher running that stimulates the appetite.  As soon as I turn on the dishwasher, he decides it's time to eat something.  Must be that rumbling sound.....

Fuel for Thought

  In the fall, our fuel oil supplier advised, during the annual cleaning, that they had determined that our fuel oil tank was in such poor condition that it needed to be replaced.  A device that measures the thickness of the metal had registered that the tank was too thin for safety purposes, that it had rusted from the inside and the rust had undoubtedly accumulated at the bottom of the tank. It was not safe to fill, so a "Do not fill" order was imposed on our poor and hazardous oil tank.  The price quoted for replacement with a new tank and removal of the old, after pumping out the remaining oil, was $2595 minus a $200 good customer credit.  We had already prepaid our estimated oil usage of $2350, so we had to act.  We learned it was better to use up most of the contents; the tank was about half full, so we had some time, but we did not want to take a chance that the tank would spring a leak, as we were told was quite probable, given its condition.  If the oil leaked out onto the floor of the basement, the entire concrete floor would have to be removed and disposed of, at great expense.
   We got a quote from a local company of $1350, or "No more than $1400," so we hired him to do the job, and paid $1550, including tax.  In order to get our fuel delivery accomplished in view of the "Do not fill"  order, we were told the driver/ delivery person would first have to inspect the tank before he could fill it, to make sure it was safe.
  On the day of delivery, the driver knocked on the door and asked to inspect the tank.  I showed him to the cellar, and told him there was a light near the tank so he could see to inspect it.  He said "No, it's okay, I can see that the gauge reads full, so you're all set."  We had let the oil run low before we replaced the tank, so I was surprised to hear the tank was full.  When I asked him how that could be, he said he'd already filled it.  Since the gauge read full, he knew that it wasn't leaking.  Duh??
   

Dream on.

   I blame it on all those TV versions of "A Christmas Carol."  My belief is that authors have an obligation to uphold the literary integrity of their creations.  If a character is dreaming and not living the prescribed plot line, there should be enough clues or evidence provided so that the reader can deduce the distinction between the two.  That's why I had some difficulty with the message in "Life of Pi."  Allegory is legitimate, but the author should not just spring an alternate story ending with the dictum to let the reader decide.  I find that a cop-out.  I myself strive to make sure I discriminate between reality and the dream world.  This is a dream:
     I am entering Madigans' house through the familiar front door.  Only this time there are two full-grown pet rabbits compressed in the space between the door jamb and the foundation.  One rabbit is black and white, the other a tawny brown.  No one besides myself is surprised the rabbits are inhabiting that space.  Maureen is inside, surrounded by supporters; she has had her hair cut and is very unhappy with the results.  She is on the phone, trying to find a solution.  I look: her hair looks great, shorter but still fairly long, and layered back from her face.  I ask why she doesn't like it.  She says the texture is all wrong, and it needs to be corrected.  They say all dreams have a relationship to some real event in your life, but I have no idea why this would come to mind.  I think I'll go back to sleep and see if I can find a connection.

Shades of Scrooge

A dream---or was it? 
       For some reason, I was in a beauty or hair salon, home based.  The proprietor was evidently caring for my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. MacCartee, now of advanced age.  He had been one of my favorite teachers, in old age then, or so it seemed.  He was short in stature, probably not much more than five feet tall.  He was of Scottish descent, and had never married, as far as I can recall.  I'm not sure if he even drove a car, and it seems he lived in an apartment, maybe in Schaghticoke, or possibly in Mrs. McClure's attic apartment.  I remember sending him a Christmas card that year, at least, because I admired him so much.  His was the  class  which served as my introduction to intellectual discussion, not of the  textbook variety, though what I remember may have been in private conversation.  I sat in the front row in his class, and he sat not behind the desk, but in a chair at the front of the room.  He was not a strict disciplinarian, and English was not a subject which captivated much of  the large class, so many who sat toward the back of the room spent the time passing notes, I suppose about their real or imagined social lives. 
    He raised the issue one day that all people are driven by self interest or personal gain.  I think it was a spinoff of the meaning of the vocabulary word altruism. He proposed the concept that to act in an altruistic manner makes those persons feel good about themselves, and so is self-serving behavior.  I felt a little shocked because I was still in my "religious period," and said I didn't think that was true, that I believed some people acted out of true concern for others.  To my surprise, he said he agreed  with me, that he had just been postulating a theory that some upheld. I believe this was the first  time that I'd been exposed to the idea that people could present a controversial idea without bias or prejudice.  He was a learned, kind, and educated man, and looking back, I think I must have loved him for that.
   In my dream, at the home of the woman who ran the hair salon, he was half-sitting, half-reclining, on what we used to call a daybed, with a coverlet drawn up around him.  I looked at him and met his gaze; his eyes were clouded over, with no signs of recognition.  I continued whatever business I had with the proprietor, someone I knew but since I wasn't getting my hair done, I don't know why I was there.  He started to get up from his reclining position, and I felt appalled: I hoped against hope he wouldn't be clad in pajamas or, worse yet, underwear.  I needn't have worried.  He was wearing khaki pants and a bright blue polo shirt.  As he walked in my direction, he said my name, with a question mark.  I said yes, that's me, and as we hugged, he asked if I'd recognized him, which, in truth, at first I had not.  I  said it took me a while because I'd never seen him before without a suit jacket, which was true.  He laughed a little, and reflected on how times had changed.  I'd thought at first that the sadness I felt was because he'd grown so old, but during the course of the dream I realized the sorrow was for myself as well.  No wonder he had difficulty recognizing me---the last time he'd seen me I had dark heavy hair falling to my shoulders and smooth, unwrinkled skin. 
   I woke myself up by uttering out loud, "Time is funny."

Got the heebie-jeebies?

Attribute the name of it to William DeBeck, cartoonist of "Barney Google."   To learn more, just google.

Old-timey Saying

  He was regretting the loss of what he used to have somewhere back in the expanse of his six years of memory.  I told him there was an old-time expression to deal with that:  "There's no use crying over spilled milk."  Back in the old days, I told him, farmers used to milk their cows by hand, into  a bucket, which the cow would occasionally kick over with her foot.  The precious milk would be lost, and the milker (or milkmaid), would be distressed.  But once the milk was lost, there was no sense in feeling bad about it.  What had happened happened, and nothing could change it, so it was time to move on.  So did he understand the expression?  "Oh, I get it," he said, "Every time milk gets spilled, you've just got to clean it up." 

Travis Scobey

The poor soul.  He e-mailed that he has traveled to Italy so his sister can receive chemo when she suffered a relapse and she needs treatment that will cost 6.000 euros.  He is asking for a loan of any amount, and will pay it back as soon as he returns. He says, "There is nothing called a small help when the heart giving it is big."  He included an address, but oops, it somehow got deleted.....

Two Old Fools

Totes McGotes Sprint commercial-----Who wants to research nonsense---a waste of time.  Not all of the elderly are willing to make fools of themselves for money, but these two are.   (Submitted by that old grouch, E. Day)

Sante!

   On the news today, I heard:
      (1) Some study results say it may be okay for people over the age of 60 to have blood pressure of 150/90.  (Some doctors disagree of course, further studies needed.)
      (2) People should eat foods that make them happy, even doughnuts with sprinkles.   (Not a recommendation of course, just sayin'.)

Feed the Birds: Revolting

    The two bird feeders still have some food in them, and the suet block does not yet need replenishing.  Mourning  doves do not land on the bird feeders; they move more like chickens than birds, with their slow deliberate steps.  They mustn't be able to hop onto the feeder.  So the practice here is to spread some seeds on the ground below the feeding stations so they can eat from the ground. 
     After the  snowfall the other day, the usual flock of about 20 mourning doves came but since the ground was covered with the first real snowfall of the season,  there was no way for them to eat any of the leftover seeds.  I went downstairs to the supply of birdseed and opened the door, intending to toss a few scoops of seed onto the shoveled-off pathway.  A flurry of wings and the distinctive sounds only a few dozen mourning  doves can make greeted me as I opened the door.  They were evidently waiting right at the door, or else plotting how to get inside.  I tossed a few scoops outside; the doves soon re-appeared, ate, and left.  I noticed that one of the doves stayed behind, seeming a little more huddled over, probably cold, maybe an older bird. Who knows what their lifespan is anyway.
     This morning, early, I looked out the kitchen window and saw the flock of mourning doves beneath the feeders as the other birds fed.  They were scrambling, if such is the word, to get any of the food dropped off the feeders.  So I repeated the feeding process.  As they fed, I observed from my window what does not seem like the behavior expected from any type of dove.  I saw one bird peck another in the head, as apparently it came too close to where that alpha bird was feeding.  I thought the victim might have been the huddled-over bird from the day before, but then I noted that the aggressor bird did the same for any nearby bird; he delivered swift, intense strikes to the head; I saw him with a beakful of feathers plucked from at least three different birds.  It looked as though he might have been aiming for their eyes.  I remember reading that people of certain cultures would blind canaries so that they would sing more often, not being able to discern the  difference between night and day.  People can be so cruel, but then animals  can be equally vicious, as anyone reading "Life of Pi" can attest. 
     I watched the hierarchy of bird behavior for a while, until the flock left.  Again, one of the mourning doves stayed behind.  I imagined it was the same huddled-over bird from the day before.  It seemed docile, picking at the remaining seeds.  I watched, glad it was finding food, and left with that image in my mind.  I returned a short while later to see if the bird was still there:   it was, or half of it was. In a circle of feathers, sitting atop and devouring the innards of the unfortunate bird was a large hawk of some type. It had a long dark tail.  I think it might be a kestrel.
    Post mortem:    Several hours later, kind of sickened, I look out the window again.  About half the flock of doves has returned.  This time, they stay under the feeders, scavenging for the fallen seeds.  One mourning dove has even alighted on the perch of the larger feeder, a feat I didn't think possible. None of them has approached the circle of death outlined by feathers.

The News Today

Woke up to the two major news stories of the day:  (1) Court ruling on national surveillance may undermine decades of intelligence building.  (2) Beyoncé has released a music album bypassing traditional  publicity route.

Death of Cake

"This (story) was born as I was hungry."   It has nothing to do with Portugal in 1939, and it may or may not make you believe in God.
    She was not named after a swimming pool.  But she had been a very good student indeed, and one day she found herself leaving her comfortable surroundings in further search of sustenance.  She had refined her religious associations over the span of her lifetime, and had settled, to the degree that anyone ever really does, on the path to salvation that suited her present needs, and resolved her quest for now, to the degree that such issues are ever resolved.  So she was, overall, content, but that did not preclude her  venturing out from time to time, in search of what she perceived she needed.
    The vessel that contained her mortal coil this day was constructed in Japan, and had been under her control for several years.  Though the weather was serene and calm, a sudden and unexplainable calamity arose somewhere in the mechanics of the formerly reliable transport, and she was flung out of its protective casing onto the vast sea of the tarmac.  That which had formerly obeyed her orders and was a means of shelter for her had rebelled, ceasing  to be as it was before.  Moreover, it had trapped her, its vast bulk descending on her vulnerable leg, rendering her a prisoner, unable to move.  She could hear life going on around her, but none of it was a source of aid to her.  Somehow throughout what seemed like eons  of struggle and suffering, the elements allowed her to survive. Chalk it up to her strong will to live.
   Help finally arrived, inexplicably, in the form of two strong young men, who were able to extricate her from what could have been certain death.  What they were doing in that location, at the precise time of her need, only God knows.  They brought her to a place of comfort, where after her basic needs were attended to, she was interviewed as to the source of the devastating accident. She explained, as best she could, but the chief interviewer refused to believe that she was not the one responsible for her being cast out of her vessel, in this case an automobile.  After consult with her family, the decision was made, with her implicit compliance, that she should further divest herself of any acquisitions or appurtenances that may interfere with her eternal relationship with the godhead.  Stripping the nonessentials from life bares an inner strength that brings with it inner peace, explainable only by the metaphysical. 
    If you cannot accept that explanation, you may prefer to know that she was growing old, had a traffic accident, and was advised to surrender her driver's license, and pare down her lifestyle, so as not to cause any more trouble for anyone. 
     Choose the allegorical: choose the mundane reality.  The Lady or the Tiger?  It really doesn't matter; it's fiction.
  

Life of Pi---Censored

I read the book: the kids went to the movie.  The youngest said he saw part of the movie.  When I asked him about that, he said he saw the movie except for the parts where his mother clapped her hands over his eyes. 

"A crock and a travesty"

Newsflash:   The American Psychiatric Association has ruled that affluenza is not a real mental illness.****  That's just crazy talk.

Home-Boy Improvement

  As with many television shows, I don't pay strict attention.  I'm in and out of the room, reading, or doing something else while the TV is on.  But the person being interviewed appeared to be one of  those formerly famous ex-football players, out of the intense media spotlight now.  He proclaimed that his present goal is "to become a better person."  Achieving that goal, he went on, means he will stop smoking, exercise more, and eat a better diet, in hopes of becoming as fit as Michael Strahan.  I didn't think that's what is meant by the term "better person"  but I guess there's nothing wrong with being literal. 

Mega-musings

Mega Millions Winning numbers:    19, 24, 26, 27, 70 and 12.
    Let's see.  If I had chosen the wedding anniversary dates of myself, sister and brother, I'd have had the 24, 26, and 27.  Then my birthday and that of my youngest child, and I would have had the 19 and the 12.  But the 70--that would have had to have been a sheer guess, unless I added the age of my youngest child to the age Christ lived to.  So darn close, and I didn't even buy a ticket.  Wait 'til next time.

Mrs. Buttermaker

    I'm lying in bed, water bottle nearby, TV remote beside me, cozy blanket pulled up, and a book.  I'm reading "Life of Pi."   The television is on, but I'm not really watching it, am more interested in the book.  I hear a sound, as if someone is moving around in another room.  Not the cat, I've already put it out.  And locked the door.  Though I know that locked door has been kicked in twice.  I can still see the footprints on the paint of the second ill-fated door, 2 sneaker prints and the outline of a workboot.  (And I know who owned that boot too.)  I mute the sound on the TV and listen carefully. I hear nothing.  Sometimes the refrigerator knocks; that could have been it.  Or the furnace; it's getting old.  Maybe it's because we're letting the fuel tank run low: it's being replaced on Thursday.  I'm not really afraid, but there's this niggling memory of a story I read in "Atlantic" magazine, years ago, even before I was officially old.  That magazine is on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, and it is such a creepy, terrifying story that I'm reluctant to even stir up the magazine.  I leave it alone, and hope the story repays me in kind.  But it doesn't; though I've mostly blocked from my consciousness the sad conclusion of the life of Mrs. Buttermaker, the threat of memory  is ever present.  The ugliness intrudes on me.  I get up and go to the computer, in the kitchen.  I believe that more meet their demise in the confines of the bedroom than at the keyboard.  Fare thee well, Mrs. Buttermaker. You live forever in my memory.

Installment #2 "The Crazy"

   I might have some of the happenings out of sequence because it was a long time ago, but though out of order,  the episodes are accurate as they are  burnt into my mind.  I'd lived a very conflict-free life up until then, and was not in the habit of provoking any threatening behavior.  Maybe it was the pregnancy which triggered the outbursts, because that's definitely what they were; it seems folklore has recorded such instances.  Or maybe it was the visits from Birdie's sister Dot, who was even more erratic, crazier as it were. 
   One day as I was walking up the cellar steps with  laundry basket in arms, the kitchen door opened at the top of the first floor steps, and there stood  Birdie and Dot.  The only interaction I'd had so far had been the potholder purchase, and I'd had no suspicion anything was amiss, until one of them shrieked, "The next time you're coming up those stairs, I'm going to take a hatchet and smash your head open!"  


Another episode
    Dot had taken to frequent visits; no good ever came from any of them, and that summer was so chaotic that my mother had real fears that my unborn baby would be affected.  Our next-door neighbor was Norma, a young (though several years older than I) mother of little twin boys, Kevin and Kelvin, about three years old. Her husband was stationed in the military, so she was home alone a lot. Somehow Birdie, with dominant sister Dot, had a gripe against the family, maybe because the little boys were too loud while playing in their sand box, who knows. Norma used to come to my apartment for coffee and to commiserate about the trouble Birdie was causing us.  Norma had also been the subject of complaints to the State Troopers, obviously for no valid reason.  Sister Dot used to call the Troopers frequently, for various complaints and reasons. When the trooper would come to our shared front door, I, from upstairs, could hear the conversations.  Dot was well-to-do, had come from a financially sound Saratoga family, as I understood it, and was married to the owner of the Valley Inn, (who, rumor had it, she may have murdered), but that came later.  She was always well-dressed and coiffed, black hair in a fashionable do, jewelry and colorful clothes.  I was still in my 20's so she seemed oldish, but she may have been near the age of 50, attractive for her age or so  she thought or hoped.  She would greet the trooper in a girlish seductive voice, and try every ploy to get him into the apartment, but he never did, always stood at the door. He knew the drill.  

The Tauntings
    I can't remember all that happened, but Dot was visiting her sister frequently.  Now that I look back, maybe because there were  men there, it's  possible  she may have been drawn to them.  Don and Barbara, newly engaged, were frequent visitors, and Dot would put on displays, often calling out in a singsong voice, prancing in full view in the driveway, and even lifting her skirt.  I couldn't have fathomed why. One morning she backed her car out of the garage, which they had the use of, having been the first tenants.  She parked directly behind Dave's car, so there was no possible way for him to move his car to get to work.  He asked her to move it, but she refused.  "Nyah, Nyah, you're not going anywhere."  He reported her to the police;  her story was that she'd had diarrhea, and had been unable to drive her car, so she avoided any culpability. 
 
But then...
   The State Police did enter the downstairs apartment one day!  Norma and her husband couldn't take it any longer.  Not when Birdie told them she was going to take a rifle and shoot the twins as they played in the sandbox. She was going to shoot down on them, she said, from the upstairs window.  That would mean our apartment.  So, once again, the troopers were at our door, to warn us, I suppose.  They said they were not taking the threat lightly, because they had checked Birdie's past and had found she'd been arrested in N.C. for shooting a Revenue Agent.  Really, no kidding.  Birdie refused to go peacefully into custody, so she was forcibly removed, kicking and screaming, strapped to a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.  My mother would light candles for my unborn child. 

 

"The Crazy Ones" Installment #1

   I lived in Schaghticoke for a year, in a second floor  apartment  above that of a crazy woman and her alienated  teenaged daughter.  I don't use the word crazy lightly, as that is what we called such people in those days.  I was "expecting" for most of that year, as we didn't use the word pregnant in those days, expect for clinical references.  Socially speaking, you could be crazy, but not pregnant. 
    We didn't spend much time in the apartment because Dave worked in Albany and I in Cambridge, right up to a few weeks before the baby was born, so our interaction with our downstairs neighbor was initially on a very limited basis.  When we moved in, Birdie came upstairs to introduce herself, and also to ask if I wanted to buy some potholders she'd made. I think they were a quarter each, and they've been at the bottom of my kitchen drawer for a long time now, having been too skimpy to be of any real use.  I found  both her name and her sales effort to be a little strange, but I probably attributed both to her being from the South.  (What did I know, I'd never met anyone from North Carolina before.)
     Dave's job at the time took him to Rochester, so I lived alone for much of that first winter, except for weekends when he would drive home.  One day, there was a knock at the door.  I answered it to find a State Trooper standing there.  "I hate to ask you this question, Ma'am," he said, "but I have to.  Do you have a relative of your downstairs neighbor locked in your attic? She claims you do."  I said no, he apologized again, and left.  That was the beginning of a nightmarish year. 

Unsettled

    That's what I'd call it---a feeling, not anxiety exactly, but rather a feeling that I'm waiting for something, or someone, and I'm forgetting some important step.  As I've said, too many times, this is the first time since I was eleven years old that I haven't had a job, of some sort, with appointment times and deadlines, and therefore projects accomplished.  The feeling borders on the waking edge of those dreams where you can't find the room you're supposed to be in, or can't make yourself move.  The feeling gnaws away: can a person become so irrelevant that nothing at all is required, expected or remarkable.  Time will tell:  it always does.

Diminishing Returns

     Of course, of course, it's all for the best, it's the right thing to do, blah, blah, blah, but it still sucks scissors.  An old friend of mine recently decided not to drive any more after suffering an accident in her car.  She is rational and courageous about it, but the hurt is there.  She passed her car on to a young couple who are financially limited, thinking that was a positive in the decision she made.  Since she no longer drives, she is moving from her comfortable apartment to a facility that has more amenities, including a pool of cars and drivers reserved for the residents' use.  The smaller living quarters means she also must part with a portion of her household furniture and other accessories.  She is attempting to find good homes for her stuff; she already downsized ten years ago when she moved from her family home into an apartment so still more treasures must go; possessions acquired over a lifetime have become liabilities.   
     She already has been at the mercy of others regarding transportation.  A cab driver she called for an appointment contacted her half an hour after the time of her appointment to ask if she "still" wanted a cab.  She rebuked him, and he hung up on her.  A portent of things to come, no doubt.  The more isolated one becomes, the less valued by society, at any level.  Humans are capable of accommodating to almost any situation, but that doesn't make certain changes, inevitable as they may be, any easier to accept. 
    When you have been driving your own car for most of your life, when you have traveled the world, even served in the Peace Corp in Africa, losing the path to mobility has to break your heart, at least a little.
 

A Mystery of Life

      I  own a nightgown, bought last summer at the fashion emporium known as Boscov's, that will not dry.  It comes out of the dryer cycle soaking wet, even though all  the other clothes are dry.  The first time, I thought it must have gotten tangled, but the same level of wetness has persisted through three or four launderings.  The nightgown is ordinary, looks like flannel, below the knee length and with long sleeves, but the label says the material is rayon with a little Spandex, and it's made in China.  It strikes me as a little creepy: maybe I'll donate it.

The 5 W's of Journalism

Who, What, When, Where, Why?
    Let me add-----WTH?
I know it's a holiday edition, but reading The Record's Opinion Page  this morning sent me into a state of befuddlement.  What the heck are the writers trying to say? What message are they attempting to get across? 
  John Ostwald tips us off with his column heading, "Then & Now" (or "Then + Now"). Take your pick.    He further elaborates with a sub-heading "Share those experiences."   He says he is interested in having viewers share their unforgettable experiences of attending different wakes, and goes on to describe his own recollections, influenced, he points out, by the style and experience of the undertaker.  He narrates details, from the best to the worst.  His best memory is being passionately kissed by a young girl whom he, as an older man, bent to give a platonic hug.   Forget submitting your wake experiences.  Who can top that?  Rest in peace to the corpse.
    Remember the old projection that if you locked an infinite number of monkeys in a room with an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite period of time that they would write the entire Bible?  I think those monkeys must be typing away in a room somewhere and periodically submitting their efforts to The Record under the name of Edmund Day.  What else can explain his circuitous attempts at making some point or other while his logic is irretrievably tangled up with a mishmash of fact and fiction and dogmatic opinion. 
     The rather creepily written "Guest Editorial" from Contra Costa Times (whatever that is) doesn't come across very clearly either, but does have the guts to admit  "taking an opinion holiday," and leaving the reader to decide.  I did.
  Skip over to Siobhan, whoever, renowned mother of two, and try to decipher whatever issue she's going for.  Her kids are geniuses and she needs to shield them from the ignorance and brutality of the world around them.
      I'm abandoning the newspaper for now; I'm reading Life of Pi----don't quite get that either.  Oh, well.....