The Day the Music Died?

My my . . . .
I certainly didn’t notice it.

And you could probably convince me that I am wrong. There used to be music in elevators and now there isn’t any. I know I’m right about the “once upon a time” part of that, but is all the elevator music really gone?

I ignored it, and held it up to ridicule and now they have done away with it. It seems little video screens now take the place of the Muzak -- filling us in on the vital news of the day.

That’s how I know: Scientists have discovered a tiny, blind ant whose species appears to “the sole surviving representative” of some of the first ants. Ever.

They (the scientists) reckon that they (the ants) evolved from wasp ancestors 120 million years ago.

The new ant (well, old ant actually), has been named Martialis heureka, or the ant from Mars. It is referred to by the National Academy of Sciences as a “cryptic predator from the soils of the Amazon rainforest”.

It is wise always to be mindful or at least aware of “cryptic predators”, blind or otherwise. I suppose that if our little Martian arthropod gropes its way out of the rainforest and ominously confronts me with a Greek epigram and a wry expression I should either dive for cover or expect to be eaten. But can’t I commute to my board meeting without a hint of this frightening prospect?

Enough information already. I want easy listening -- a pleasant ride to the 32nd floor with The Girl from Ipanema. Now that’s the way to travel.

Deliverance

Ah the sweet worries of the past!

Remember getting all worked up about putting lipstick on a pig?

Folks arguing in earnest about whether it’s an offense to the moose-shooting hockey mom to use a cliché after she laid claim to the word “lipstick”. Like it was Don Imus’s latest pronouncement on the Rutgers University women's basketball team. (Putting lipstick on a nappy-headed pig?)

So it goes with the news of the day. Just before Katrina, the eyes of the nation were on the Florida coast, where, believe it or not sharks were biting people! In fact I think that’s what really messed up Terry Schiavo. But my memory is not great.

Anyway, however you slice it, it’s going to take more than lipstick to pretty up the Wall Street bulls and bears alike.

Speaking of bears; despite all her vigilance, our alert northern governor didn’t see the great Russian beast pull this one off. It was right there in the Chess section of the paper of record: Alexandra Kosteniuk, a 23 year old Russian bikini model has become the World Women’s Chess champion.

A Russian bikini model! Chess champion of the world! The best ours can do is play lingerie football and whine about Darfur like they could find it on a map!

A short history lesson from the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum:

On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union sent into orbit Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite in history. Then a month later, an even larger and heavier
satellite, Sputnik 2, carried the dog Laika into orbit.

Sputnik’s launch came as an unnerving surprise to the United States. The space age had dawned and America’s Cold War rival suddenly appeared technologically superior.

So here’s to Alexandra – I fully expect her to defend her crown next time with a dog under her arm – and it won’t be a Chihuahua. Maybe they'll stuff Laika just to rub our noses in it. Or clone her.

I think my real problem is that I can only think of one reason to put lipstick on a pig and it scares me that our political leaders can speak so blithely about it. What’s next, fishnets and heels? At least Eliot Spitzer kept it within the species.

Long Time, No? Si.

I may need a better case for my scenario.

It still troubles me. Two thousand eight men pounding drums in perfect unison to start the Olympics. Perfect unison!  That's like 670 Blue Man Groups, with the lights and the pounding and the music and all.  Imagine what they could do with marshmallows.  Or Jello.

And all of them smilng the same smile.The announcer remarked that they were instructed to smile so as not to seem menacing.  Nice guess, Howard.  It only gave the whole spectacle a further frightening touch of the Samurai Stepford Wives.  And you gotta know that was no mistake.

Just ask the Ghostface Killah ---  Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with.

So I should consider myself lucky. I suppose I can live with a worst case scenario.  But would you please call the desk and request a better venue?

And Five, Six, Seven, Eight

What about reading and writing? Do they do that anymore?

It came in today’s e-mail:

Hi All,

I will be doing zumba at the scituate library saturday 9/13 at 3:30 for 45 mintues for family fun day. My others classes are as follows;

Sun 11am & Tues 6:30pm Bayshore Athletic club Braintree (subbing for 6 months)
Tues kids zumba 4pm my house
thursday adults USA fitness 10:30am
Friday ssymca 5pm for ages 7 and up

Join the fun people!

Jodi

Putting aside Jodi’s distinctive formatting, grammar, spelling and capitalization, this troubles me greatly. Zumba? In the library? Zumba for kids? In her house? It just can’t be right.

Come to find out Zumba is some kind of exercise craze for bored people who lack the discipline to workout honestly, but clearly imagine they can dance. Instead of waiting for the next wedding reception to bust loose with the bump or an enthusiastic Electric Slide executed with military precision, they gather, apparently in public libraries, and huff and puff their way to their next sign from Billy Blank. All to a Brazilian rhythm

I thought it was only the Nigerians and the penis enlargement scams we had to look out for, but now Zumba. I am known as a generous person, so I understand the interest the Nigerians have shown. And no doubt an aggrieved girlfriend somewhere along the way thought it would be clever to even the score by telling lies about me. But why Zumba – why me? What have I done?

Maybe I’ll put a sign in my front yard – “Zumba lessons for kids – sign up today.” See how long before they come down and bust my ass.

Or tell me to take it over to the library where that stuff belongs.

Who Stinks?

"I rejoice that there are owls.”

                                         Thoreau

I have a nose for this sort of thing

Unless I am mistaken, it was a Palawan Stink Badger. I sat behind one in home room in the seventh grade. Because our names were alphabetically proximate, we also ended up sharing a locker that year. So I was close enough to make a pretty good study of him.

A bit paler than most, but Palawan, I am sure. A vile mammal of the weasel family. Closer to a skunk than to the cute but ill-tempered little pests we commonly picture. All the ferocity of the American badger with the further attribute of highly potent anal gland secretions – which secretions are generously and very accurately dispensed, at even slight provocation, with often devastating effects.

He used to steal aftershave and cologne from the local drugstore – no doubt when he purchased his cigarettes. And so his shelf was conscientiously stocked with Lucky Strikes (concealed in the way only a seventh-grader can believe will avoid detection) Jade East, English Leather and, for a while, Hai Karate. An obese, chain-smoking pre-teen with a sailor’s supply of cheap perfume.

Dear old Mr. Kent would wonder aloud “What is D— doing with all that aftershave in his locker?” I am sure he suspected my locker-mate of distributing the stuff, but I learned that year that an ordinary man’s dealer’s supply can be a desperate man’s personal stash. Especially when you are talking about scents with enough potency to match the output of those anal glands under even the greatest duress.

Owls – yes please. But I do not rejoice that there are Palawan stink badgers.

"Such, such were the joys . . ."

Pause To Consider- Further Matters of Imminent Concern

Time to grow up and post an honest blog. Now that we've Toasted for a couple of months it is time to get down to truly blogworthy matters. How about a series of excruciatingly long, pointless accounts of the truly mundane. Maybe an annotated photo journal of my "staycation". I could start with something folsky like:

With the price of gasoline going through the roof, the wife and I decided this would be a good year to spend our two weeks right here in Newton. As Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz said, "There's no place like home." And boy, she was right! So far everything we ever wanted is here right in our own back yard.

Oh yes, that's the idea. Put staycation in quotes so people will "get it"- not a va -cation, a stay-cation. It's one of those neologisms like a sale-a-bration or veepstakes or something.

And gas prices? It doesn't get any more topical that that here in the 'blogosphere" (more on that later.)

"The wife" - Christ, not even "the little lady"- just some definite object who embraced the non-vacation vacation; maybe even comanded it. At once disowned and derogated. Not a person, an office.  Horace Rumpole's She Who Must Be Obeyed.

While I'm at it, how about I insult you by explaining which Dorothy? Like it's an an obscure literary reference. Obscure. Like Moby Dick, or Superman. Read on and I'll continue to beat the tacky reference to death with talk of Toto, ruby slippers and the Wicked Witch.

No, we will have none of that here. There are important matters that remain to be considered. How about:

• derring-do
• akimbo
• The New Yankee Workshop
• poker on the sports page

Yes, that will do nicely.

Meanwhile, would you like to see a picture of my firends Bob and Margaret at our "Fourth of July Fun-in-theSun Extravaganza"? He was my room mate in college and she used to work with Bob Costas. . . .

If That Don't Beat All. I Never Saw Such A Dog.

Burn Sanderson [to Travis]: You can't hardly tell at first, not till they get to the point of slobbering and staggering around. When you see a critter in that fix, you know for sure. But you want to watch for others that ain't that far along. Now, you take a bobcat or a fox. You know they'll run if you give 'em the chance. But when one don't run, or maybe makes fight at you, why, you shoot him and shoot him quick. After he's bitten you, it's too late.

Here is what you need to know.

First, I enlarged all the font sizes on my Windows desktop. Leaning toward the screen to read the icon labels and stuff was causing me neck pain. And I don’t need reading glasses dammit!

Second, I am convinced that the three frogs that have been living in our pool know me by sight. My wife thinks it’s only one frog, but I think the three of them are just taking turns in the pool, whereas before they were all frolicking all at the same time. At my age I can certainly tell one frog from another. Not only that, but now that I have installed a safety ladder so they can escape the skimmer basket without my help, why the hell would they leave? Can you tell me that? No, I bet you can’t.

Finally, I agreed to attend a birthday party for a cat. There are extenuating circumstances having to do with the actual date of the cat’s birth and some other things that are none of your business. And the cat in question, sadly, is no longer with us, so technically it is moot. But it was to have been a birthday party and it was planned for a cat. And I agreed to attend. (Further disclosure: I had not purchased, but had not honestly ruled out purchasing a gift for dear Bandit.)



I have fully expressed my wishes in certain circumstances, (My Medical Proxy). I don’t think I am there yet. But I am concerned. If I start to slobber and stagger, well. You know what to do.

After I've bitten you it will be too late.

Wilbur, Get My Agent on The Line, Pronto!

And when they came for the pandas, there was no one left to speak out.

You go to bed one night as a charismatic megafauna – the picture of the freedom, the majesty of the great western plains. The wild horses! The stuff of legends and little girls’ dreams. The “go-to” extra when Detroit reaches out for new car ads. Wild horses! Rolling Stones hits and god knows how many faux-western “saloons” salute you and it’s all good baby. It’s phat!

And the next day ka-pow! That star on the dressing room door now says "feral equid". The Times is telling the Sunday brunch crowd on the Vineyard that you are a feral equid. A pest. You and your kind are just so many giant pigeons shitting on the great statue that is the American wilderness. We can’t feed you we can’t corral you; we can’t even afford to kill you. Feral equid.

Killer bees? Who cares – they died with that Belushi guy didn’t they? And what about those Northern snakehead fish that were attacking Maryland? Voracious, air-breathing, land-crawling predators that are ugly! I mean 1950s sci-fi “nuclear test gone bad” mutant ugly. Nobody paying them much mind.

Even the damn sharks have a fan club. Try to haul a few of them out of the water and win a prize in Nantucket and they’ll treat you like you took a nine iron to a fairway goose cause you choked on your backswing.

Maybe if you learn to swim under water you can hide out among the manatees until this all blows over.

I’d call Mr. Ed. He’s gotta know somebody. Or Ellen Degeneris.

Oh, What a Tangled Road We Surf.

When I was a pup they had this thing called the Internet. Al Gore came up with the idea before the planet got a fever. The information superhighway they used to call it.

The buzz was thick with metaphor. It was pretty easy to grasp at first. The metaphor that is. Enthusiasts (I am told that geek is a hurtful word) told of travelling at the speed of the information superhighway, or moving in the fast lane on the information superhighway or, (terror) breaking down on or being left behind by the side of the information superhighway.

In fact, it was damn-near getting out of hand with everything from rest stops to express lanes to road kill.

We got it. Internet=highway=fast=good. It appealed to the minds that grew up on jet-age technology, new and improved anything and E-Z steps to every measure of success, from financial security to converting the basement into a playroom. There was a comfortable logic that eventually took us from jet-age to space age. Space-age! Now that has got to be good.
Mind you, back in the day, we actually needed proof that Brand X couldn’t compare. But once we saw it, we got it and we believed it and our belief in it was enduring and unshakable.

So, why suddenly were we back on a highway? In fact, why were we suddenly surfing? On a superhighway?

I have never surfed, but I can’t imagine it’s a very smart way to get anywhere –not anywhere in particular anyway. Throw a web and a net into the metaphor and I’d say you got a toxic mix – a technically difficult, aquatic, recreational ride through a complexly woven trap capable of snaring flies, fish or fowl. All on a dry, mostly level paved surface teeming with tractor-trailers going 80 miles an hour?

I say, get me out! No wonder the damn superhighway is so littered with fast-food joints, souvenir stands and titty-bars.

I have got to bury this Andy Rooney attitude. Has anybody heard from Xuxa lately?

You Can Help or You Can Just Look Away

I need Sally Struthers’ phone number.

Providence guided me to the e-mail from Abidjan as I reviewed the spam file. I do so once a week for any sign of a reply from that doctor who promised me a full refund for the enhancement products. I am quite comfortable with what I have and, well that’s why it’s just called enhancement after all. I just don’t like being left hanging like this. But that’s another story.

Her plea was simple and touching:

Hello Dear,

My name is Stella Sigcau, the elder daughter of Mr.Zac Sigcau of Zimbabwe.

I got your esteem contact and particulars out of desperate search for a business minded personality in your country, who will honestly assist my younger brother and I to realize our inherited funds into his/her account and as well as invest it into a lucrative business.

Well without recounting the whole of her dire story, I will tell you that it seems this Robert Mugabe has killed the elder Sigcau and seized his farm. Now that they only run the cryptic crossword puzzles every other week in the Nation, I have been reading about this Mugabe from time to time and I can tell you it is not good! He hangs more than chads – you can bet your lunch money on that.

Thoughtfully, and fearing the worst, Mr. Zac managed to place $14 million in a safe account. Having fled to Cote d’Ivoire, Stella and her brother only need my help to access their rightful inheritance. I am to send them my direct phone and fax numbers and await further communication from their Counselor-at-Law – a Mr. Nesbitt. Apparently Nesbitt acts on their behalf because as asylum seekers in Ghana, they cannot transact any business in their homeland.

I will not lie to you; the 30 percent that will be mine is a powerful incentive – it will surely permit me to finally settle that ugly matter with the Girl Scouts and will probably leave me living pretty high off the hog for many years to come. But of course the real satisfaction will come from helping this desperate young lady (she calls me “Dear” though we have never even met!) and her brother through this most trying time.

Sally would be proud of me. I just know it.

Jaime