Yes, Let's

Someone named Lesley M. M. Blume writes a column called "Let's Bring Back" for the Huffington Post in which she apparently waxes nostalgic about things.  I'm not entirely sure about it as I couldn't find many examples of such columns.  Nevertheless, she has expanded the idea into at least three books that I can find, the latest being the one I heard about on NPR this morning called Let's Bring Back:  The Cocktail Edition (subtitled, "A Compendium of Impish, Romantic, Amusing, And Occasionally Appalling Potations From Bygone Eras.")

Having resurrected for myself the WWI-era sidecar, I had an empathic moment when listening to Ms. Blume's interview on the radio as she lamented the neglect of vintage cocktails such as the gin fizz and the DuBarry.

Well, that's fine, but if it were up to me, I'd want to bring back cocktail lounges, which are disappearing like buffalo.  I'm not talking about a tavern, or a bar, or a restaurant that serves liquor, but a real honest-to-God cocktail lounge where the lights are low and so is the decibel level; where there's no juke box, no piped-in music, no one-man-band, no live entertainment except maybe, just maybe, an unobtrusive piano player; a place where you sit on comfortable chairs, not stools, at tables of regular height, and where there are no pool tables, no video games, and no food served except perhaps a dainty bowl of high-class snack mix on each table, and where bartenders actually know how to make a sidecar, a really cold martini (up), and a vodka sour that doesn't taste like vodka and lemonade.

Ms. Blume (and don't I wish I was cool enough to have two middle initials) did mention a cocktail called a Godmother that sounded interesting.  It calls for equal parts of vodka and amaretto stirred (not shaken) over ice, strained into a cocktail glass, and served with a list of wishes to be grand by, one presumes, your fairy godmother.

I may try that.  Maybe I can wish up a cocktail lounge.

Came and Went

This business about the world ending tomorrow got me to thinking about famous dates that were once in the future.  We've lived through all sorts of doomsday predictions, some relatively recently -- anybody remember the flap over Y2K?

It's funny how people who write books about the future pick dates that seem at the time to be way in the future -- Orwell in 1949 chose 1984, Arthur Clark in 1948 figured 2001 would be a good year for a space odyssey.  When those years come and go, it just sort of loses something.

In the spring of 1961 when I was a freshman in high school, the teacher I had for General Science wrote in my yearbook next to his picture, "Remember Halley's Comet in 1986."  He wrote that in everybody's year book, and we all laughed because -- 1986?  Are you kidding?  That's a real long way off!

But now all of a sudden it's a real long way ago.

Amendment Number Two

I do try to stay away from politics in this here blog thing, but it's time for me to weigh in on this subject, so here goes.

In order that the powers of the new federal government of the United States not be misconstrued or abused, the Congress passed and sent to the states for ratification ten amendments to the Constitution on March 4, 1789.  Their purpose was to spell out specifically certain rights that were dear to the hearts of those who had fought to free the North American colonies from British rule.  It came to be known as the Bill of Rights, and its ten provisions have been staunchly defended ever since, especially the second one, which goes like this:

Amendment II
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

The other nine amendments simply state what is guaranteed without any explanation.  For example, we are entitled to protection from unreasonable searches and seizures, although there is nothing to explain what is to be considered unreasonable or why it is prohibited.  We are also protected against cruel and unusual punishment, but again, what exactly is cruel is not specified, nor is any reason given for this protection.

The first amendment grants us what may be considered the hallmark of liberty for a free society, but there is no statement that explains why we are allowed to assemble peaceably or to petition the government for redress of grievances.  We just are.  And we are promised freedom of religion, and of speech, and of the press.  Period.  No reason given.

We must conclude that the drafters of these amendments assumed that the reasoning behind these protections was obvious and could be taken for granted.  Except in that one instance, the second amendment, which provides a specific reason for its inclusion.

And it is a very good reason that the right of the people to keep and bear arms is guaranteed.  Not because people need to be able to shoot animals for food, although lots of people did in 1789, nor to protect themselves and their homes from attack by angry Indians, something that might well happen in those days.  No, people may keep and bear arms because a well-regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state. 

We have a well-regulated militia.  It's called the National Guard, and the kinds of weapons National Guard soldiers need to ensure our security are not the sort anybody needs to have in order to kill an animal for food.  And I think the last Indian scalping raid was a long, long time ago.

It's time to give up the guns.  They can keep their animal-shooting rifles, but it's time to give up all military-type weapons and all hand guns, for the security of a free state, a free movie theater, a free college campus, a free shopping mall, and a free first-grade school room.

Cute Cats

The Animal Planet aired a show last week about the world's cutest cat, and something about it reminded me of a time when I had taken my exceptionally cute cat to the vet's.  While we were waiting our turn, a young couple came in with a furry little kitten.  The wife sat down holding the kitty on her lap while her husband went to the receptionist's window to check in. 

After getting pertinent info such as name, address, phone number and such like, the receptionist said, "And what's the kitten's name?"  The young man muttered something that sounded like "F-vvv."  The woman said, "What?" and only slightly louder he said again, "F-vvv."  She said, "I'm sorry.  I still didn't hear you," to which he responded more loudly and quite distinctly, "Fluffy!"

Can you guess who lost the argument over naming the kitten?

I got my cat ("free to good home") when she was just eight weeks old.  She was all black and had beautiful eyes that were mostly blue but ringed with green.  I named her Murphy because I was sure nothing could be that stubborn and not be Irish.

Cuz band-aid's stuck on me

Between my thumb and the thing on my leg (or where the thing on my leg used to be before the doctor made it go away on Monday), I've been using a lot of band-aids lately. I have had plenty to choose from.  We have boxes and boxes of them, some very old and some just recently purchased, some of all-one-size, and some a mixed up conglomeration of old and older of different sizes and shapes and materials of various brands. 

I usually prefer the fabric kind, which are basically light brown.  The semi-waterproof ones I bought to use on my leg are a real strange color, sort of a pinky salmon.  When I was a kid, band-aids were white.  I remember when they came out with the first ones that were supposed to be "flesh colored."  I don't know whose flesh they were modeled on.  There's  not a one of them that's the color of my skin, or anybody else's I've ever seen either.

I use "band-aid" generically, even though it's a brand name.  I suppose I think I'm getting away with it by not capitalizing it.  There are plenty of brand names that are used generically, usually because they were either the first or the best known.  And there are some things that started out as trademarked names that just plain aren't any more -- aspirin, zipper, and cellophane among them.

I used to keep a list of such brand-cum-generic names as they came to me, but I can't find it right now.  I do remember that Band-Aid, Kleenex, Coke, Scotch Tape, Thermos Bottle, Saran Wrap, Jell-O, Popsicle, and Visqueen were on it.

I know about Visqueen because I once worked as an order-taker for a company that made the same kind of polyethylene sheeting, but theirs was called VapoFilm.  We hated it when someone would call and say they wanted to order some Visqueen.

I should have learned a lesson from that, I guess.  Okay.  Sorry, Band-Aid.

Twelve Twelve

It is that day, 12-12-12, and I have nothing further to say about it since everybody should know by now how I am about such dates.

Even though the twelve days of Christmas don't start until Christmas day, I am hearing that song about the twelve fabulous gifts, and it is the 12th day of the 12th month of the (two thousand and) 12th year, so I thought I would take this opportunity to present my own version of that tired old tune.  Feel free to sing along.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Twelve Margaritas,
Eleven vodka gimlets,
Ten dry martinis,
Nine Fuzzy Navels,
Eight Bloody Marys,
Seven Whiskey Sours,
Six Rusty Nails,
Five Goldschalg shots,
Four Daiquiris,
Three Mai Tais,
Two Rum and Cokes,
And a great big Long Island Iced Tea.

Yes, you could call it a wish list.

True Story

Since I was early for my appointment with the eye doctor this morning, I decided to take another crack at sending a text message from my cell phone, my third one in a week.

It took me a while to remember how to send a message and then another while to figure out how to send it to my intended recipient.  Once I got that straightened out, I composed a bare-bones message ("Coming today at 4.30?"), resisting the use of those irritating word-letters (as in, "r u coming today").  

It went slowly.  I had to use my right index finger to punch most of the keys because the injury to my thumb prevents me from honing my thumb-typing skills.  I finally gave up looking for the colon, if there is one, on the tiny keypad and put a period in 4.30.

Finally I finished it and sent it off, successfully.  I was so proud.  But I was beginning to worry that the other people in the waiting room would think I was one of those nerdy techno-dorks who spend every moment texting and tweeting and playing with phone apps, so I put the phone back into my pocket.

When I looked up, I saw that all four of the other people sitting there in the waiting room were intently focused on the cell phones in their hands, diligently thumbing the buttons and keys.

O Little Town of Banana Bread

Wednesday there were three over-ripe bananas on the kitchen counter begging to be put to some purpose, so I obliged them. What with our traditional annual holiday cookie-baking weekend approaching, I thought that an entire loaf of banana nut bread might end up neglected, so I baked four mini-loaves instead, freezing three for future consumption, or maybe even to be given as part of the baked-goods gift giving.

Well, I'm here to tell you that one mini-loaf of banana nut bread does not go very far. There will soon be only two in the freezer.

While I was composing the foregoing, I heard on the radio what was described as a traditional French Christmas carol entitled "Ding Dong Merrily On High."  That sounds like three Christmas songs thrown together, doesn't it?  Sort of like "I'm Dreaming of a White Chestnut Roasting on a Jingle Bell Rock."

Not only is it not a particularly engaging song, it turns out that only the tune is French, a 16th-century secular ditty.  The words are by some English dude, and I admit that they do make more sense if you hear the entire first phrase:

Ding dong! merrily on high
In heav'n the bells are ringing.

Still, I don't think Frosty or Rudolph need to feel threatened.

Tweetle Dee Dee

My grandmother (whose 123rd birthday is tomorrow) used to go around unplugging lamps and radios and appliances because she thought that when things were plugged into a wall socket but not turned on, the electricity leaked out into the room causing some grave if unspecified danger.

When it comes to modern technology, I feel a lot like my Grandma.  Although I embraced personal computing when it became affordable in the 1990's and became somewhat knowledgeable and proficient at certain aspects, I seem somehow to have been left completely behind.  I do not have a laptop or a tablet or an iAnything.  I use a dumb phone.  My desktop computer has been obsolete since the day after I bought it five years ago.

Yesterday, for the first time in over a year, I sent a text message from my cell phone to somebody else's cell phone.  The delight I took in this success was quickly quashed by the news that Pope Benedict XVI now has his own Twitter account.

I barely know what Twitter is, have absolutely no idea how it works, what it's for, how to use it, or even how to join, and yet the Pope, who is almost 123 years old himself, is all signed up and ready to tweet.

What is to become of me?

Choo Choo

On this date in 1967, the New York Central Railroad's Twentieth Century Limited trains completed their last runs between New York and Chicago.  What had been a gloriously luxurious form of transportation for 65 years faded into history, victim of the interstate highway system and air travel.

I recall several trips by rail with my mother when I was small, from Chicago to downstate Illinois to visit my grandparents, and once to Kansas City.  There was also a year of my life when I worked down in the Loop in Chicago and took the commuter train to and from every day.  My last train trip was in 1983 when I took the train from Macomb, Illinois, to Chicago and from there on to Kalamazoo.  It was fun.

Whenever I think about riding trains, however, I cannot help but recall the absolute terror I experienced as a tiny child whenever we had to pass from one car to another while the train was moving.  It made going to the dining car a trauma.

As soon as Mother slid open the door at the back of the car, my little ears were filled with the roar of the train as it hurtled down the track, accompanied by the peripheral perception of the ground and countryside thundering past.  The normal rocking and jolting of the train seemed to intensify as we moved through the door contributing to my sense of unsteadiness and impending calamity.  The two cars' platforms were moving, but not in unison, and there was a terrifying gap between them.  It was probably no more than a couple inches, but to a toddler it seemed like a yawning chasm.  Mother would hold my hand and help me to jump over the fissure onto the next platform.

Scared the living daylights out of me every time.