For You, Weekend Fisher

... a propos of one of your comments to one of your posts...

Where’s Professor Higgins When You Need Him?

On trains or busses, we can overhear entire conversations of which we understand no more then half a dozen words. They just don’t speak English here. They speak Scouse, the local dialect, and when they do attempt English, well…

Most people already know how the Brits mangle “garage” (they say “GARE-azh”!) but they do it will all sorts of other words, too. They say “et” instead of “ate” and whereas everybody knows “fillet” is pronounced “fill-LAY”, they said “FILL-let”. It’s true. But after all, you say, that’s exactly as it’s spelled. Then why do they say, “Lester” and write it, “Leicester”? And “scone”! Did you know that despite its spelling, it does not rhyme with “own” but with “on”? As if you were about to say “sconce” but never finished the word.

The English say “clock” when they mean “clerk” and something close to “cloak” when they mean clock. One of the main streets here in Ormskirk (“OHMS-kuk”) is West Derby, but do they say so? No, they say, “DAH-bee”. They say “lorry” instead of truck, “trolley” instead of cart, “footpath” for sidewalk, and traffic signs, instead of saying, “One Lane Ahead” say “Single Carriageway”.

Not only that, people here completely botch numbers and the alphabet. Suppose somebody over the telephone is reading back your account number: “Haitch, double-six, zed, nought, triple-four”. By the time you’ve mentally decoded “double-six” and figured out it’s not a throw of the dice, you’ve missed the rest. It’s no wonder you have to ask for the number two or three times twice or thrice (Yes, they do say “thrice”) before you can figure out that the number is H66Z0444.

There’s even a murder mystery series by Martha Grimes featuring a valet named Rivven. I’ve spelled spelt that as it sounds; you’d go mad trying to guess how it’s written in the book. So I’ll tell you that in defiance of every principle of phonetics, it’s R-U-T-H-V-E-N.

Oh, why can’t the English
Teach their children how to speak?
Norwegians learn Norwegian
And Greeks are taught their Greek…

(Well, actually, Greeks aren’t, anymore, but that’s another topic for another day.)

Arabians learn Arabian
With the speed of summer lightning,
And the Hebrews learn it backwards,
Which is absolutely frightening!

You see? Even Henry Higgins, for all his singing about “the cold-hearted murder of the English tongue”, isn’t entirely innocent. Professor, the British may not learn English, and the Greeks certainly no longer learn Greek, but Arabs learn Arabic!

Fun

Spent part of yesterday and all day today with my mother and sister. Tonight the retirement community had a jokes evening, which we all attended. Here's my favorite, of the ones told:

A 50-year-old married couple was eating at a fancy restaurant when a tiny fairy appeared on their table and said, "I will grant each of you one wish."

The wife said, "I'd like a cruise around the whole world, stopping anywhere I like, with all the luxuries included."

"Granted," said the fairy, and poof! - the tickets appeared in her hand.

The husband said, "I'm sorry, my dear, to tell you this, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and what I really want is a wife half my age."

"Granted," said the fairy, and poof! - he turned 100.

How to Choose a Good Wife

From our friend, John, a retired restauranteur, who knows everything there could possibly be to know about food and the food industry.  He can tell you why some fish taste "fishy" and others don't ("The ones that taste fishy aren't fresh enough!"), can tell you how to make a hamburger taste better by how the ketchup and pickles are arranged, and he can describe how calves are raised in a way that will curl your hair and turn you into a vegetarian.

And John can tell you, if you ask him, how to choose a good wife:  "Have her prepare potatoes," he says.  "If she takes off too much of the peel, she's wasteful.  If she fails to cut out the eyes, she's lazy.  If she doesn't cut the pieces evenly, she's sloppy.  And if she eats some of the potato, nice and warm, right from the pan, she's a glutton."

Knitting Humor

I received this ad today and thought it was so funny others might enjoy it, too.  The ad is real.

Start your day with knitting wit and wisdom from Franklin Habit

The calendar for knitters!

Missed Worldwide Knit in Public Day last year? Intended to celebrate Elizabeth Zimmermann's birthday but forgot? [Anastasia's note: Zimmermann is a celebrated designer of knitting patterns, especially lace.)

Make sure you don't miss out on these important dates again, with Franklin Habit's Stash of Knitting Cartoons 2011 calendar! Keep track of all the noteworthy dates in the knitter's year, from festivals and retreats to the birthdays of knitting luminaries. And of course, plan out your holiday and gift knitting in advance, all on one calendar.

With wit as sharp as The New Yorker, Franklin affectionately tunes into the knitter's sense of humor, presenting thirteen hilarious, favorite cartoons from It Itches. Knitters will easily relate to the situations and characteristics of knitters that Franklin illustrates, be it from the compulsive yarn buyer to the mottephobic (fear of moths), to missing the holiday knitting deadline and the constant conundrum of just where to stash all that yarn.

Franklin Habit's Stash of Knitting Cartoons 2011 Calendar will not only help you keep your knitting organized for the year, it will also keep you laughing every month.


* * *

Oh, and while we're at it, I found another knitting cartoon I love.

A Delicate Legal Matter

The following remarkable correspondence has come into my possession from a never-to-be named source; and as it appears to be nearly two decades old, I think no harm will come from my sharing it with you.  Here it is, with minor editing to protect the parties concerned, assuming they may still be alive.

Henry R. Roote
1000 Kabrich Street
Blacksburg, VA 24060
December 12, 1992

Mr.  Phineas Flopadopoulos, Esq., P.A.
Law Firm of Flopadopoulos & Flopadopoulos
P.O. Box 7336
Richmond, VA 23204

Dear Mr. Flopadopoulos:

Here's five dollars toward the cost of having you represent my former - and hopefully, future- friend, Mr. Jason Quincy Limpett, who wants to sue me.

The dispute concerns an unsolicited so-called poem he submitted to me, which I refused to publish in the monthly community newspaper of which I am editor and publisher.

To give you an idea, he rhymed "Clinton" with "badminton," "Perot" with "afterglow," and "Bush" with "tush." 

Also included in his envelope, together with the poem, was an invoice for $100.00, if you can imagine.

I told him it was trash.  Of course I didn't actually say "trash."  I simply wrote, "It is no good."  Then I added, "In cold type, it would make the angels weep and the immortal gods go out into the woods and kick themselves."

Obviously, he could not take the hint.  He threatened to sue me for the $100.  When I heard that, I was so mad I published a few choice words about him in the next issue, which I admit was an inadvisable thing to do, and now he wants damages as well as a hundred dollars.

A mutual friend, hearing of all this, told me that the best thing for me would be to get you, Mr. Phineas Flopadopoulos, and none other, to represent Mr. Jason Quincy Limpett.  He therefore kindly recommended you to Quince, without mentioning me.

One thing I should confide to you from the outset, Mr. Flopadopoulos, is that I am a blunt man.  So to come to the point without further ado, what I want you to do in representing that skunk, Jason Quincy Limpett, is absolutely nothing.  Listen to him with apparent concern, take notes if you like, and then stall, stall, stall!  You have been recommended to me as an expert and if you succeed in stringing him along for a sufficient period of time, I feel confident that Mr. Limpett eventually will give up, admit he was wrong, beg my forgiveness, and we shall once more be fast friends.  And if people call you "the do-nothing lawyer," so what?  You will have gotten paid, and by helping heal this rift, will have done a good deed, too.

Speaking of pay, I understand of course that a mere five dollars is but a tiny fraction of the actual cost of retaining you.  Mr. Limpett will bring the rest when he stops by your office next Tuesday or Wednesday.  Meanwhile, I heard somewhere than even one dollar is enough to "seal the deal" legally, and that is why I enclose the fiver.  Quince, by the way, is swimming in money, so don't hesitate to sock it to him.  After all, you'll have to listen to his snivelling for heaven knows how long, and will have to read his doggerel besides.

You can also bill me a reasonable amount over and above what you charge him, since you are representing the bests interests of both of us.  Plus, I figure this deal will save me hiring a separate lawyer.  Of course, since what I'm hiring you to do is nothing, I don't expect that will cost me very much!

Thank you, Mr. Flopadopoulos, for helping two old friends end this sorry dispute.  I already feel easier in my soul.  Should you fail to grasp any of these instructions, do not hesitate to write me at the above address.

Yours very truly,

Henry R. Roote

P.S.  Do not mention to Mr. Limpett anything about this arrangement between you and me.

Mr. Jason Quincy Limpett III, Director

Institute for the Advancement of Virginia Poetry

Shenandoah, Virginia 25031
03 January, 1993

Mr. Phineas Flopadopoulos, Esq., P.A.
Law Firm of Flopadopoulos & Flopadopoulos
P.O. Box 7336
Richmond, VA 23204

Dear Mr. Flopadopoulos:

Say it ain't so!  Did you really accept a bribe from Henry Roote to submarine my case?  That's what he told everybody at the New Year's party.  He even admitted it to me when I cornered him.  Which means he is in even worse trouble now.

And just as I had instructed my secretary to make an appointment with you. 

Well, the clock is ticking and I've got to start kicking ass before the Statue of L. runs out for slander.  So here's what I need to know from you:  is the guy lying, as usual, or not?  He says he can prove you did accept his bribe.  Please let me hear from you pronto.

Sincerely yours,

J. Quincy Limpett, III
Poet

A Reply to Miss Knits

Miss Knits, advice columnist for True Knitters Daily Digest, recently advised a reader to buy a bigger house in which to store her out-of-control "stash" (unused yarns).

Today Miss Knits received this e-mail.

Sorry, it doesn't matter how much larger a place you get, it still fills up. We moved here from a 1 bedroom apt after my FIL passed away and left DH a bit of money and I thought that I'd died and gone to heaven since this is a 2 and 1/2 story old farmhouse with 5 BRs. I now have 3 rooms full of crafting things and have the treadle sewing machine in the dining room cuz there's no room in any of the other rooms.

Now that I'm getting ready to leave DH and move into my own place, it's going to have to be a large one just to hold all my stuff! And, since I'm moving cross country will have to figure out how to move it. Glad I know how to drive trucks.

So, now I need to win the lottery to just move it. Guess you can never win because there is always something new to wish for.

Sandi

_______

Anastasia's note: This is a real post to an actual Yahoo knitters' group. Except for being shortened by a phrase or two, it is here reproduced unedited.

Dear Miss Knits:

The following was inspired by Sarah in Indiana, who confesses that her stash is under control. “Stash,” for you non-knitters, is an embarrassing word referring to all the yarn you haven’t yet used. Some of it is left over from completed projects like the king-sized blanket that eventually became an afghan. More of it is gorgeous stuff you simply couldn’t resist when you were in the yarn shop. You had to have it. You will knit it someday, but you are waiting either to finish the other 6 projects you already have on needles, or for the yarn to call to you, to reveal itself to you, to tell you what it wants to become.

Now a True Knitter, simply put, is an addict. She has more stash than she can easily admit, more than she has good places to put it, more than she can afford, enough for years of projects even if she should keep all the promises she makes to herself and never buy another skein until the yarn she already has is (mostly) used up.

It is unsound doctrine, unscriptural, to call anyone a True Knitter whose stash is “under control”. (Sorry, Sarah.) While True Knitterness is beyond our poor, feeble, human attempts to define, the following, clipped from True Knitters Daily Digest, illustrates it.



Dear Miss Knits,

Help! My husband has discovered my stash and he says we need to “take care of it,” which means throw it away. He says we need our attic for other things. Of course, he has no idea how much it all cost. Please tell me what I should do.

If you decide to publish this, please just sign me,

“Desperate”




Dear Desperate,

Clearly you have made several mistakes, the first of which was marrying a Non-Knitter. The second mistake was failing at least to convert him into a True Knitter after the fact. (Miss Knits has no doubt you tried, dear.) Well, there’s nothing to be done about these missteps now, except to let them serve as warnings to other Knitters.

Fortunately, there is indeed something we can do about your third mistake, which was to store all your stash in one place. Never, never, never, keep your whole stash in one place! Smaller storage places are important because: they are less likely to be discovered, they limit our exposure if they are found, they are less likely to elicit a complaint from our spouses, and they do not display the full evidence of how much money we have spent on yarns.

Here is what you must do. Call upon your other Knitting Friends, explain the emergency, and beg them to keep portions of your stash for a while. (Do not ask them to keep very much of it or for very long, as their own stash is probably as much as they can normally handle except in emergencies such as this one.) Do not forget, as a courtesy, to provide your own mothballs or whatever you use to keep the bugs away.

After a week, retrieve your stash from your Knitting Sisters (and/or Brothers, if you are lucky). Divide it into several small stashes and store them in the small places you will have spent the week preparing, and keep a list of these places in the bottom of your knitting bag.

If worse should come to worst, part of your stash is discovered and your husband insists he needs that space, simply begin immediately to use the yarn from the revealed stash. It isn’t necessary to finish the project right away, just get it on needles.

Of course, the long-term solution is to buy a bigger house. Miss Knits understands this may not be realistic in the near future, but you should keep it in mind.

Wishing you Happy Knitting,

Miss Knits

When Metphors Become Literal

I love it when this happens!

The first time I can remember it happening was one morning when I was changing the sheets on the bed. You know how you sort of flap the top sheet to make it billow? Well, I let this sheet go too high, and it got caught by the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. I yelped.

"What's wrong?" called Demetrios from the next room.

And I said - are you ready? - I said, "The sheet hit the fan!"

Another time was while I was raising a baby robin. I stood looking out the window one rainy afternoon, wishing aloud I had gone out in the rain to collect some of the worms that had emerged from their flooded holes in the ground.

"Why don't you go out now and get some?" asked Demetrios.

"Too late; they'll all be gone by now. The other birds will have gotten them all."

"You mean...?"

I nodded, and in unison we said: "The early bird gets the worm!"

Yesterday, it happened again when I went to transfer a load of our undies from the washer to the dryer. The washing machine stretched and twisted one pair into a long rope, which got caught in the agitator and snagged half a dozen other pairs into a huge, tangled mess. I was bending over the washer, my head almost inside, tugging and muttering to myself, when Demetrios came to see what was the matter.

"Panties all in a wad?" he asked.

Partial Outline for My Next Book

Title: Hearts Aflame
Subtitle: My Our Marriage,a Systematic Presentation A Full and Systematic Exposition

I. The Existence of True Love

A. Proofs from Scripture
B. Proofs from Philosophy

1. Movement
2. Time
3. Cause and Effect
4. Lesser Known philosophical proofs

C. Proofs from the Fathers
D. Scientific considerations
E. Papal Pronouncements

II. The Nature of True Love

A. Metaphysical Foundations
B. Emotional/Psychoanalytic Dimensions
C. Behavioral Manifestations
D. Physiological Effects
E. Distinguishing True Love from its Counterfeits

III. How I know Demetrios Loves Me

A. Proofs from his words

1. Spoken words/oral tradition
2. Written words

a. love letters
b. text messages

B. Anaylsis of his actions

1. In public
2. At home
3. In the bedroom

C. Body Language
D. Facial Expressions
E. Analysis of various kinds of smiles
F. Secret Signals

IV How I know I love Demetrios

A. The Pros and Cons

V. The Concept of Marriage

VI. History of Our Romance

VII. How our Love Plays out in Daily Life

VIII. The Role of Children and Pets in our Love


Well, that’s about all I’ve worked out so far. No details yet for anything past Chapter Three and need several more chapters on things like “Jobs, Work and Play in our Romance“ and “Our Marriage and the Potential Threats to It” and something about the role of home, automobile, travel, and yardwork. Oh, and obviously, a section on "Examination of Proposed Improvements." Anyway, whaddaya think so far?


P.S.) According to the counter I set up, as of this date, we've been married 18 years, 8 months, 4 weeks, and 1 day. (Take that, ye who thought it would never work!) Unfortunately, I have not kept a log so as to be able to include in the book a daily synopsis of our marriage.

White Lies

Have you ever told a white lie? You are going to love this, especially all you ladies who bake for church events.

Alice was to bake a cake for the her church's Ladies' Group in Tuscaloosa, but forgot to do it until the last minute. She remembered it the morning of the bake sale and after rummaging through cabinets, found an angel food cake mix, quickly made it while drying her hair, dressing, and helping her son pack up for Scout camp.

When she took the cake from the oven, the center had dropped flat and the cake was horribly disfigured. There was no time to bake another cake. This cake was important to Alice because she did so want to fit in at her new church, and in her new community of friends.

So, being inventive, she looked around the house for something to build up the center of the cake... She found it in the bathroom - a roll of toilet paper. She plunked it in and then covered it with icing. The finished product looked perfect.

Before she left the house to drop the cake by the church and head for work, Alice woke her daughter, gave her some money and specific instructions to be at the bake sale the moment it opened at 9:30 and to buy the cake and bring it home.

When the daughter arrived at the sale, she found the attractive, perfect cake had already been sold. Amanda grabbed her cell phone and called her mom.

Alice was horrified-she was beside herself! Everyone would know! What would they think?

All night, Alice lay awake in bed thinking about people pointing fingers at her and talking about her behind her back.

The next day, Alice promised herself she would try not to think about the cake and would attend the fancy bridal shower at the home of a fellow church member and try to have a good time.

She did not really want to attend because the hostess more than once had looked down her nose at the fact that Alice was a single parent and not from the founding families of Tuscaloosa, but having already RSVP'd, she couldn't think of a believable excuse to stay home.

The meal was elegant, the company was definitely upper crust Old South, and to Alice’s horror, the cake she had baked was presented for dessert!

Alice started out of her chair to tell the hostess all about it, but before she could get to her feet, the Mayor's wife said, "What a beautiful cake!"

Alice, still stunned, sat back in her chair when she heard the hostess say, "Thank you, I baked it myself."



God is good.

Have a Few Chuckles

Here are three of our favorite children's poems by Robert Louis Stevenson. I doubt the poet meant these to be funny, but we always laugh out loud when we read them. Besides having a great deal of charm, they are so very English, you know! (Never mind the poet was born in Edinburgh, Scotland.) "The English are best, the English are best!"


Foreign Children

Little Indian, Sioux, or Crow,
Little frosty Eskimo,
Little Turk or Japanee,
Oh! don't you wish that you were me?

You have seen the scarlet trees
And the lions over seas;
You have eaten ostrich eggs,
And turned the turtle off their legs.

Such a life is very fine,
But it's not so nice as mine:
You must often as you trod,
Have wearied NOT to be abroad.

You have curious things to eat,
I am fed on proper meat;
You must dwell upon the foam,
But I am safe and live at home.
Little Indian, Sioux or Crow,
Little frosty Eskimo,
Little Turk or Japanee,
Oh! don't you wish that you were me?


Marching Song

Bring the comb and play upon it!
Marching, here we come!
Willie cocks his highland bonnet,
Johnnie beats the drum.

Mary Jane commands the party,
Peter leads the rear;
Feet in time, alert and hearty,
Each a Grenadier!

All in the most martial manner
Marching double-quick;
While the napkin, like a banner,
Waves upon the stick!

Here's enough of fame and pillage,
Great commander Jane!
Now that we've been round the village,
Let's go home again.


There we go: pillage and fame. That's what it's all about.


The Unseen Playmate

When children are playing alone on the green,
In comes the playmate that never was seen.
When children are happy and lonely and good,
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him, and nobody saw,
His is a picture you never could draw,
But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,
When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin
That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,
Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head;
For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,
'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!

If Only We Could Have Been There!

This concert review was written by Kenneth Langbell and first appeared in the English-language version of the Bangkok Post under the title "Wild Night at the Erawan" on 27 May 1967.


The recital, last evening in the chamber music room of the Erawan Hotel by U.S. Pianist Myron Kropp, the first appearance of Mr. Kropp in Bangkok, can only be described by this reviewer and those who witnessed Mr. Kropp's performance as one of the most interesting experiences in a very long time.

A hush fell over the room as Mr. Kropp appeared from the right of the stage, attired in black formal evening-wear with a small white poppy in his lapel. With sparse, sandy hair, a sallow complexion and a deceptively frail looking frame, the man who has repopularized Johann Sebastian Bach approached the Baldwin Concert Grand, bowed to the audience and placed himself upon the stool.

It might be appropriate to insert at this juncture that many pianists, including Mr. Kropp, prefer a bench, maintaining that on a screw-type stool, they sometimes find themselves turning sideways during a particularly expressive strain. There was a slight delay, in fact, as Mr Kropp left the stage briefly, apparently in search of a bench, but returned when informed that there was none.

As I have mentioned on several other occasions, the Baldwin Concert Grand, while basically a fine instrument, needs constant attention, particularly in a climate such as Bangkok. This is even more true when the instrument is as old as the one provided in the chamber music room of the Erawan Hotel. In this humidity, the felts which separate the white keys from the black tend to swell, causing an occasional key to stick, which apparently was the case last evening with the D in the second octave.

During the "raging storm" section of the D-Minor Toccata and Fugue, Mr. Kropp must be complimented for putting up with the awkward D. However, by the time the "storm" was past and he had gotten into the Prelude and Fugue in D Major, in which the second octave D plays a major role, Mr. Kropp's patience was wearing thin.

Some who attended the performance later questioned whether the awkward key justified some of the language which was heard coming from the stage during softer passages of the fugue. However, one member of the audience, who had sent his children out of the room by the midway point of the fugue, had a valid point when he commented over the music and extemporaneous remarks of Mr. Kropp that the workman who had greased the stool might have done better to use some of the grease on the second octave D. Indeed, Mr. Kropp's stool had more than enough grease and during one passage in which the music and lyrics were both particularly violent, Mr. Kropp was turned completely around. Whereas before his remarks had been aimed largely at the piano and were therefore somewhat muted, to his surprise and that of those in the chamber music room he found himself addressing himself directly to the audience.

But such things do happen, and the person who began to laugh deserves to be severely reprimanded for this undignified behavior. Unfortunately, laughter is contagious, and by the time it had subsided and the audience had regained its composure Mr. Kropp appeared somewhat shaken. Nevertheless, he swiveled himself back into position facing the piano and, leaving the D Major Fugue unfinished, commenced on the Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor. Why the concert grand piano's G key in the third octave chose that particular time to begin sticking I hesitate to guess. However, it is certainly safe to say that Mr. Kropp himself did nothing to help matters when he began using his feet to kick the lower portion of the piano instead of operating the pedals as is generally done.

Possibly it was this jarring or the un-Bach-like hammering to which the sticking keyboard was being subjected. Something caused the right front leg of the piano to buckle slightly inward, leaving the entire instrument listing at approximately a 35-degree angle from that which is normal. A gasp went up from the audience, for if the piano had actually fallen several of Mr. Kropp's toes if not both his feet, would surely have been broken.

It was with a sigh of relief therefore, that the audience saw Mr. Kropp slowly rise from his stool and leave the stage. A few men in the back of the room began clapping and when Mr. Kropp reappeared a moment later it seemed he was responding to the ovation. Apparently, however, he had left to get a red-handled fire ax which was hung back stage in case of fire, for that was what was in his hand.

My first reaction at seeing Mr. Kropp begin to chop at the left leg of the grand piano was that he was attempting to make it tilt at the same angle as the right leg and thereby correct the list. However, when the weakened legs finally collapsed altogether with a great crash and Mr. Kropp continued to chop, it became obvious to all that he had no intention of going on with the concert. The ushers, who had heard the snapping of piano wires and splintering of sounding board from the dining room, came rushing in and, with the help of the hotel manager, two Indian watchmen and a passing police corporal, finally succeeded in disarming Mr. Kropp and dragging him off the stage.


I have laughed over this piece for many years and am disappointed to learn it's tongue-in-cheek.  According to snopes, this story never happened.  Should've known that as soon as I read that Myron Kropp was "the man who has repopularized Johann Sebastian Bach." !

What the Heck is That Line Made Of?

Someone forwarded me these photos, which had been forwarded forty-zillion times before...

Getting Together

Let’s get together, yeah, yeah, yeah!
We can have a swingin’ time.
Let’s get together, whaddya say?
Why don’t you and I combine?

She leaned across the table toward him, her eyes aglow with love. He leaned across the table toward her, his eyes bright with lust. He was handsome; her main attraction was being clearly available.

Their knees touched. Each hand found its counterpart. There were smiles and whispers, sweet nothings in her ear. She was soaking it up. He virtually had her.

And then her cell phone rang. And she answered it! She held a lengthy conversation with some third party, while under the table, he tapped his heels impatiently, making his knees jump up and down in frustration.


Hint from Helen for Adults

Your cell phone, during a date, should never be used to allow a third party to intrude upon your time together. Turn it off as soon as your date begins (not before, though).

First Exception: It’s okay to find ways to share a cell phone, as in looking together at photos stored on it or texting each other messages you’re too shy to say out loud.

Second Exception: Your date turns out to be a dud and you need a third party to rescue you.

Third Exception: You are a doctor on call, or some other emergency worker who really, truly, does need to be reachable. (Courtesy requires this to be made clear when the date is first arranged.)

Hint from Helen for Teens

Ignore the above advice for adults! The day will come soon enough when you, too, can turn off your cell phone. For now, take it with you on every date, keep it on, and use it! Answer your phone every few minutes (that is, each time your parents call you), and in between times, be sure to call them to let them know you are okay. Encourage your date to do the same.

Don’t talk to anyone else on your cell phone, though, unless you want to let your date know you aren’t interested. Even then, perhaps you can find a more polite way to do convey your message.

Showing Off

Or, Midnight Observations From my Balcony

What is this all strut and display
When teenage boys come out to play?
Is there some universal, unwritten rule
They must constantly prove they’re super-cool?

The younger boys whip out their cell phones:
If yours takes pictures and has GPS
Sends voicemail, e-mail, photos, and text,
Why, that’s nothing, that’s just the bare bones!
Look, mine has the features that you’ll want next.

Cell phones? Nothing but children’s toys!
There’s something much cooler for older boys,
And that’s a motorcycle, with which you try
To make a louder roar than the other guy.

It’s also cool, at night, to bellow;
Between smokes, to out-shout the other fellow,
To show off their voices, newly deep,
And keep their elders from going to sleep.

What makes teenage boys
Think making a lot of noise
Is an indispensible one of their ploys?
And what makes male adolescents,
Feel showing off is of the essence,
whether with voice or bike or e-mail?

It’s the adolescent female.

That Raven

Here is a satire my great-grandfather, Joseph Bert Smiley, wrote upon Edgar Allen Poe's poem, The Raven. It's a little something my family has always enjoyed. I suppose it's our other favorite of his, along with St. Peter at the Gate.

Joseph Bert Smiley

(Click here if you need to refresh your memory of the original poem, because otherwise you won't be able to appreciate this spoof of it.)

Poe's Raven

How distinctly I remember, late one evening
last November,
I was sitting on a barrel that the moonlight gloated o’er –
‘Twas an empty cider barrel and was useful
now no more –
Worthless, now, forevermore.

As a few lone stars were blinking, I betook myself to thinking,
And I thought of that old raven Edgar Poe has told about –
That was quite a high old raven Mr. Poe has told about.
I kept thinking, thinking, thinking, as those
stars kept blinking, blinking,
And the more I thought about it, I was more
and more in doubt;
Edgar’s logic knocked me out.

And I found no explanation to that curious situation –
Here’s the lamp upon the table, and the raven
on the door,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming threw
his shadow on the floor.
Think of where the lamp was sitting and
you cannot help admitting
‘Twas an awful crooked shadow to have ever reached the floor.
‘Twas a hump-backed, cross-eyed shadow if it
ever saw the floor.

So I sought a clear solution to that shadow’s
dire confusion,
And my only strong conclusion was that Edgar
had the snakes.
I am sure he had been drinking
and must have had the snakes.
So perhaps the raven, sitting on the cornice,
never flitting,
With its fiery eyes a-burning into Edgar’s
bosom core
Was the whiskey he’d been drinking just before
he fell to thinking
Of his lovely lost Lenore.
It was bug-juice, evermore.

Or perhaps the maiden, deeming such a fellow
too demeaning,
Had preferred to share the fortunes of the
friends who’d gone before,
And had perished, broken-hearted, as fair
maids have done before.
Maybe he disgraced and slighted till she felt
her life was blighted
And her lonely soul, benighted, wandered to
a fairer shore.
Maybe Edgar’s drinking killed her, as it has
killed girls before.
It was benzene, evermore.

Get most anybody frisky on a quart or two
of whiskey,
And he’d think he saw some shadows, or some
ravens, or some floors,
And the lamps would get befuddled, and the
shadows awful muddled,
And he’d see one crazy raven perched on
forty-‘leven doors;
And he wouldn’t know a shutter from a dozen
lost Lenores.

It is my profound opinion that if Poe had
kept dominion
O’er his brains and o’er his reason, as they
used to be of yore, –
That if he had been less frisky and had guzzled
down less whiskey
He’d have never seen that raven on the bust
above his door.
Very likely that same evening he’d been
on a bust before
And got sober – nevermore.

Edgar Allen Poe

Senior Citizens In the Cardiologist's Waiting Room

(A True Incident That Happened Friday)

Receptionist: How are you today, sir?

Patient: Very, very well. I woke up this morning, my feet hit the floor, the rest of me didn't. That's a very good day!

(General laughter)

Another Patient: Yeah, it's a very good day when we wake up in the morning and we can still walk.

Third Patient: It's a very good day when we wake up in the morning and our plumbing still works correctly.

Fourth Patient: It's a very good day when we wake up in the morning.

Interpreting the "S"

Two banners I've spotted recently, hung on the fronts of businesses, each momentarily surprised me:

www.bettermenswear.com

www.farmersexchange.com

Growing Old

My friend Sylvia sent me a whole slew of cartoons about getting older. These are my favorites of the bunch. I don't see any copyright information on them...


(You can see this better if you click it to enlarge it.)


(This one really cracks me up. That's something my cat Molly would absolutely certainly do if we had dentures!)