You’re welcome, Cleveland.
I realized that it was my doing, putting my chair in just the right spot, mixed with my mojo of onion rings and seltzer with tart cherry juice on ice that made the difference tonight and brought a professional sports championship to Cleveland for the first time since the 1964 Browns.
But seriously, special victories like this take incredible fortune and almost otherworldly timing – being in just the right place, at just the right time, with legs crossing and uncrossing in synch with the fabric of space-time nail chewing, while scolding the Cavaliers‘ cavalier ball handling and shooting that kept things far too close for comfort, all of which I managed to pull off flawlessly.
I haven’t watched a professional basketball game in maybe 25 years. But when I came home to catch up on Game of Thrones and realized it was halftime in Game 7 and you were down by 7 points, the numerology said it all: “You owe it to Cleveland. So do not touch that dial. Sit your rump down, eat those onion rings, and sip that not too tart cherry goodness and CONCENTRATE!”
And I came through, for you Cleveland.
When it was 89 – 89 for far too gosh darn long as shot after shot went awry followed by no offensive rebounds, I said, “That is ENOUGH!” and out came the reserve onion rings, as I straightened every seam, turned my head and coughed, and we prevailed. You and I, Cleveland.
We, at long last, prevailed.
Pancho Villa and others at the very first Fiesta de la tarro vacía
Rare photo recently discovered
A contemplative Villa (left) and a glum Zapata (2nd from right) face an uncertain future
In Mexico during the time of the Revolution, mayonnaise was a national obsession. More of the condiment was consumed there than any other one place on earth.
In fact, leaders on both sides of the conflict were crazy for the stuff. But it was Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata circa 1910, who spread the spread among the common people, as it were, so that its popularity soared.
In those days, England was the mayonnaise capital of the world, with Cross & Blackwell’s, and Hellmann’s as the most popular brands, and the largest shipment of all time, some tens of thousands of jars, set out from Southampton by steamship on April 10, 1912, bound for Vera Cruz, by way of Cherbourg, New York, Charleston, and Havana.
But as history showed, the vessel was none other than the ill-fated H.M.S. Titanic, which struck an iceberg and sank on April 15th.
When news arrived in Mexico twenty days later, the war-torn people were devastated. Their anguish was so great, that a truce was declared between the Federales and the rebel factions, for one day of mourning. And thus was held the very first Fiesta de la tarro vacía (Feast of the Empty Jar.)
(photo: Museos de México)
It has been observed ever since, on this very day, now known colloquially as Sinko de Mayo.
Thank you, I’m here all week …
She looked down and turned my hand this way and that before dropping it. “You’re old.” she said factually.
Swiftly I took hold of her firm, flawless arm, before softening my grip and sliding my hand over her ridiculously smooth shoulder, past the skimpy strap of her dress and behind her slender neck, spreading my fingers up into her long, heavy hair to clutch the back of her head in one sudden motion.
She trembled in response.
“And you’re… not.” I said, before pushing her head toward me.
Slowly inhaling the scent of her face, I pressed my mouth onto hers and kissed her, this way and that, for a very long time, as I shifted my weight onto the cushioned window box where she reclined, settling inside her long, slender arms and impossibly long legs, before pulling the last adhesion of my lips from hers.
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” I said.
She looked down between us and then to the side, as she stirred in peevish reply. “I guess you couldn’t see yourself dating the dizzy Rock chick.”
“You’re not a dizzy Rock chick!” I said, surprised at the sudden display of insecurity.
She looked up and behind me, calling out. “I’m NOT a dizzy Rock chick.” to her flatmate, who I didn’t even know was there. But the tow-headed blonde never turned our way from her sofa seat.
“She doesn’t even know we’re here!” she said. “She’s watching — “[some JLo sort of celeb name I cannot remember, followed with the full name, said in response to my blank look.]
I pretended to know who it is. “I’m old, I don’t use compressed names like. I would be what? Toe Fill? Spoon Full?”
She snorted a short chuckle and looked down between us again. And then raised her eyes into the silent intensity of my own.
After a long, still moment I said, “I never thought I’d stand a chance.”
With a mix of feeling flattered and disturbed by the implications of all that was now happening, she dropped her gaze and squirmed a bit, as I waited for her to look at me again.
Our eyes met. But before she could speak, the shrieking alarm on my iPhone went off and I woke up with a start, and an annoyed cat on either side of me.
Neither were as annoyed as I, however. And crestfallen to be sure.
But at least I got to plant a serious kiss on the mile-wide mouth of one Liv Tyler, circa 2001.
I’ve always wanted to do that.
I didn’t really mean that. Yes, I did. Not really. Yes. It is April Fools, but these stories actually true.
Even if they concern some serious fools in April.
The BBC Website has collected a series of news items that either seem too foolish to be true including:
A story in the Daily Mail tells us that the Swedish Parliament have backed a ban on unlicensed dancing in public or “illegally moving your feet to music”. Bar, restaurant and nightclub owners without permits can be fined if customers “dance spontaneously and without permission” as a result of a vote in the nation’s parliament. Police say dancing can cause fighting and disorder.
While the daily mirror reports that Downton Abbey creator Julian Fellowes would like to create a version of the period drama set in the decade of punk rock, flares and disco. It would feature the show’s aristocratic characters “struggling in the 1970s”, Fellowes said. He added that he had several spin-off ideas “up his sleeve”.
You find links to these and several other too odd to be true stories at http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-32144005
My annual winter recitation
Derived from my correction on the data complied by Mother Goose.
Thirty days hath September
April, June, and November
All the rest have thirty-one
Except January, which has sixty-seven
And February, which has ninety
Countries That Do Not Use The Metric System
January 13, 2014
Source: Wikimedia Commons
As a proud American, I join with my countrymen as I dig my heels in, fold my arms and say, “Nope. I am not budging one inch.”
Okay, while I might budge an inch in some instances, I will certainly not budge a centimeter. I do not even know what a centimeter is. I mean, I know it is a unit of measurement and that 10 of them is a decimeter and that 100 of them is a meter (or a metre, as those perplexing foreigners insist on putting it.) But how long is that? Don’t ask me; I am an American.
I can instantly project my thought out exactly one mile. I can picture the distance and multiply it so that I have confidence in just how far away from my present position is a point 3 miles off, or 5 miles.
I haven’t played football in maybe 20 years, more like 35 years when it comes to suiting up in pads. But if it were Second Down and 4 yards to go, I know exactly where I would have to make the cut on my passing route, to catch the ball beyond the First Down marker.
But how long is 4 meters? I have not a clue.
I have always taken quiet satisfaction that a kilometer was not quite as long as, and therefore wimpier than a good old mile. So I am a bit miffed when reminded that a meter is actually longer than a yard. The very idea!
But it is okay; this time next week I will no longer remember that.
Why would I? Like all right-thinking people, such as we Americans, along with Liberians and those staunch defenders of traditional values living in the Republic of the Union of Myanmar, no effort to brainwash us with logical Base 10 measurements can penetrate, let alone sink in. None of this newfangled metric nonsense for us. No sirree bob.
The metric system got its start in the French Revolution, that mob of malcontents who were inspired by long-haired radicals with names like George Washington, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin. Apparently the French had been using all sorts of measurement systems, many not all that easy to translate into others. So in 1799 these proto-terrorists scrapped the whole shebang and forced their single system on the people. The English, on the other hand, already had one set of measurements for the entire realm, which for some reason is perfectly all right. And the English handed that system down to us, their more highly evolved cousins, before it was too late.
Unlike the ludicrous metric system, where the meter is a Base 10 fraction of the circumference of the earth, and the liter is based upon the weight of water at its melting point, and with centigrade temperatures based on the freezing and boiling points of water, our superior system is based on things that actually make sense.
The mile, as everyone knows, is 8 furlongs in length, a furlong being 1/24 of a league. A furlong, sensibly enough, is the length of one furrow of ploughed earth in a typical English field, or 40 rods. The fact no one could quite agree on the length of a rod, let alone the cupids making up a rod, or that such fields might vary from place to place is beside the point.
And when it comes to temperature, in 1724 Mr. Fahrenheit stuck a mercury thermometer into some icy saltwater and decided that was 0 and then he stuck one into a human armpit and decided that was 96, which was later refined to 98.6. See? Isn’t that so much better than having water freeze at 0 and boil at 100?
The metric system was officially recognized for use in the USA in 1866. It was refined and revised for the international community in 1960. Concerted efforts were made in the 1970s to indoctrinate the youth of America so that they would be ready for full conversion by the turn of the century. And while various Poindexters may have picked up some metric-savvy skills in Science class, the conversion rate of us true Americans has come nowhere near estimates.
Not by a mile.
And that is one man’s word on…
Countries That Do Not Use The Metric System
Monday Map is a new series at One Man’s World, where we will post interesting maps showing various aspects of our world, and the trends, distributions, and the past, present and future of everything in it.
Now that we are deep into a festive Why-On-Earth-Would-They-Send-Me-THAT-Catalog season, I reflect upon the many rites and rituals associated with this time of year, when we remember our family holiday history and traditions, as the amount and variety of mail order catalogs increase to absurd proportions.
Yet within this last and sometimes annoying fact, I found no less than the promise of the American Dream, with its wild frontiers and the sanctity of home and hearth, and peopled by the hardworking, hardspending folk that made P.T. Barnum a very rich man.
Myself being a man steeped in history and with strong family sentiments, I have stoically accepted my obligatory Land’s End and Eddie Bauer catalogs, and those from L.L. Bean arriving in duplicate despite my attempts to inform Mr. Bean that the potential customer with my Christian name and he with but a first initial are one and the same soul.
It is true; I purchase something from L.L. Bean maybe once a year, usually at the outlet store in Connecticut. This is enough to confirm a still living customer with my name at my address, even if I never order anything from their catalog. But I cannot remember the last time I bought anything from Land’s End or Eddie Bauer. And yet, as reliable as St. Nick, or perhaps Old Nick, these and many other catalogs appear unbidden, each displaying as many temptations as they can cram into a mailbox.
While lamenting the paper waste, I confess I have found diversion when leafing through these catalogs over many years, typically for a matter of minutes before they are tossed into the recycling bin. But others of more interest, like L.L. Bean, accompany me during subway commutes. Although I rarely buy anything, I enjoy the possibility of doing so, and I can see why this junk mail strategy continues well into the cyber age.
Mail order catalogs spark the imagination no less than they did when lonesome prairie homesteaders relied on the enormous tome from Sears and Roebuck for everything from woolen underwear and Hawkins guns to baby rattles and mourning veils. But for however many or few items actually purchased, there were a multitude of others that could be imagined as purchased, and every member of the family would find something within those pages of hand drawn illustrations and concise descriptions that might make their life better. And such wishful thinking filled many a long winter’s night.
Perhaps this reliance on the potential in material possessions to make one happy actually makes many people painfully aware of what they cannot have, and what other more privileged folk are happily acquiring. Then again, it provides an easy to follow yellow brick road leading to the good life one might strive for if they buckled down and made something of themselves. It is the same strategy employed in television commercials asking if you wouldn’t really rather drive some particular “luxury model,” or which make your children squawk and squall their way down the breakfast cereal aisle at the grocery. By 4 or 5 years of age, they are aware of how wonderful life would be if only they could have the trinket some cartoon character assured them resided inside specially marked boxes of the sugar-fortified, sugar-coated little bits of sugar that they’ve seen luckier children on television enjoying to the fullest.
But just like passively watching a film or television production will never stimulate one’s imagination in the way reading a story or novel can, no television commercial will replace the mail order catalog when it comes to envisioning the promise of potential ownership. With a turn of a page, any number of possible futures are made available to the reader, each filled with satisfaction and delight.
One can imagine being festooned with many of the items offered by L.L. Bean or Patagonia, while fording exuberant trout streams to a primitive campground where dries the latest batch of moose jerky. And while they wait, they can fill up on Harry and David’s Moose Munch popcorn, before digging into the duo’s ready-to-heat prime rib roast with black pepper horseradish sauce and amaretto sweet potatoes, straight from the campsite’s Wavebox portable microwave oven. With, perhaps, dessert featuring all the Godiva holiday assortment they can stand.
Then again, maybe they would better enjoy the coziness of their long-sleeve, faux tuxedo Snuggie while nestled into the overstuffed vibrogastic massage chair, nibbling chocolate-colored corn syrup from a Kincade print TV tray, and warming their slipper-socks by the electric fireplace with shifting lights and lifelike crackling noises. But don’t worry! It will not scare the pet fish wiggling on the mantle, since he is made of plastic, as is his fishbowl and seaweedy seascape.
At times I try to guess which big name retailer sold my address to the senders of these many smorgasbord-of-kitschy delight catalogs. I knew a guy who dated a buyer for such an outfit. I still remember the array of samples filling her extra rooms, from flamboyant pet beds to niche appliances made in sure-to-break plastics, to racks of brassieres in garish colors and the most frighteningly gigantic sizes.
Step Right Up, Bargains Galore
Some retailers practice a sort of shell game with their catalogs, sending multiple issues containing the exact same products, but with different cover pages, and often with the contents shifted into different positions – the women’s section brought to the front, say, or delegated to the back, or at times eliminating the men’s department altogether. Even in the rough and rugged world of L.L. Bean, it is clear which of the primary sexes buys the most stuff, at least according to their marketing research. Obviously, they haven’t observed the shopping habits of my brother.
Although my sisters ingested the contents of just about every fashion magazine under the sun, and my mother was responsible for the baskets of mail order catalogs, my brother outshined them all once he could afford to actually buy his own things. And he has never tired of spending hours shopping when visiting the city, and supplementing his one in every color wardrobe with a stream of mail order deliveries to his homestead out West.
To be fair, all of the children in my family came to appreciate fine things, found in catalogs and elsewhere. Our father had little during his Depression Era childhood, and felt he was fulfilling his obligations if he provided for us the material objects he thought would better insure our happiness. But he was also frugal enough to leave us wanting the better named brands, which our mother would often supply on the sly, at least when it came to clothing, and only after extracting from us the promise that, should our father inquire about some item, we would say it came from the most recent George Washington’s Birthday sale.
I inherited tendencies from both parents, but I tend toward a quality over quantity philosophy, and can see Macy’s entire Harold Square store and come out with what I went in for, in the time it takes most people to make it through the first room. And my office clothes were always the cheapest stuff I could find. But I also have acquired a large, if aging wardrobe of quality, from all the Christmas and birthday presents from various family members. Only recently have I been able to bring myself to cast off moth eaten items, which I held onto because they were a treasured gift from one sibling or another, even if I haven’t worn them for so long the gift giver would no longer have any memory of it at all.
When You Wish Upon a Page
But of all the catalogs filled with all the treasure, as a child I was most interested in the ones behind the cupboard doors, under the family room sideboard that served as dais for the TV. There were found the catalogs of Sears and JC Penny. Most important of all were the smaller but grander Christmas catalogs, or as Sears entitled theirs, the Wish Book.
While the larger catalogs for Fall and Spring had various sporting goods, only the Christmas catalog had pages and pages of toys, from bikes to Halloween costumes, elaborate sets of toy soldiers and the miniature materiel of war, countless baby dolls, Barbie dolls, and board games; chemistry sets, and cowboy suits. I looked forward to those catalogs from the first day of school, and once they arrived, I wore out the pages across the entire year, alone and with neighborhood friends in many sessions of “Wouldn’t it be cool if only we could have that, or this, or all of them.”
I found this image on the internet, and remember the stupefying effect it had upon me the day I saw it for the first time, way back in the days of the love-ins, Space Food Sticks, and the Bump and Run.
I had an intense dilemma over which one to choose. But I never did receive one, despite my urgent pleas before the unsympathetic mortals who had replaced Santa Clause by that stage in my fledgling materialism. Oh, how I envied the mythical kid who was lucky enough to have one of each. And I must confess I still do to this very day.
I no longer get that excited about the contents of catalogs, with the exception of certain items found in the catalogs of C.F. Martin & Co., and of the Whisky Exchange, and yes I do wish I could have one of each. And while I do not buy something from L.L. Bean every season (usually only during the after-Christmas sales,) I do very much like their chamois shirts, and have done so since my mother started buying them for me back in my high school days. Come to think of it, I am getting pretty close to having one in every color.
And that is one man’s word on…
Mail order catalogs