Far North Gift Distribution In Doubt As Trumps Imposes Tariffs On S. Clause LLC

[A US Army drone photo of the CEO of S.Clause,LLC in action.

Source: Google search, Golden Hill Studio.]

Washington, DC

A traditional world-wide gift distribution (known legally as S. Clause LLC) is in danger of being shut down on the evening of December 24 after President Trump declared it would hurt major American private business, notably Amazon, Google and even the government-run USPS.

“This tariff, it’s a good tariff, will help American workers, good people, I know a few, fine people, will have more money in their pockets to do their shopping at Sears and Wanamakers, fine American-run companies.”

When a reporter informed the President that both Sears and Wanamaker are either already closed or slated to shut down in the near future, the President shrugged and said that the Chinese, Japan and Argentina were responsible.

He made further remarks: “These goods entering the American market from a crappy third-world country that is no bigger that a large factory and an attached cottage. This gives them an unfair advantage. They don’t even pay taxes.”

Another reporter from the New York Times stood and asked about the President’s own taxes. He was ushered out of the briefing room by Sarah Saunders.

The President continued: “And what are these goods that are being delivered for free to the children? Toys. Not good. Kids don’t need those evil objects. When I was a boy, I was happy to play with a cardboard box, sometimes for hours. Good thing. Wonderful memories. With this tariff, I will make American cardboard boxes great again. Good thing.”

Secretary of Education, Betsy Devos stepped up to the bank of microphones. “There have been no studies that show toys make children any happier or more educated then, say, cardboard boxes.”

[Official White House photo of Mr. Trump signing the tariff order.

Source: Getty Images.]

 

Advertisements

What Happened at 9:54 PM on September 22?

[The earth and sun at the equinox. Source: Google search.]

Are you regular? I mean do you feel in balance? Was everything right as it should be on Saturday last, September 22? Many of you, myself included, will say that nothing is in balance these days. Nothing is as it should be. But let’s leave politics aside for a moment to contemplate a wondrous phenomenon of nature. This one occurs twice a year. On or about March 21 and on or about September 21 (this year is was the 22nd, don’t quibble about details).

What on earth am I going on about this time?

Well, it’s the Autumnal Equinox, of course. You won’t find the Druids at Stonehenge on this day (actually, the Druids are always at Stonehenge). They tend to gather at the Summer Solstice, which is on or about June 21. If you are a novice Druid, think again about going to Stonehenge in June. The parking is a bitch.

Briefly, on Saturday last, September 22, the earth was facing the sun and the day should be of equal length. From now on, the days are going to get shorter…until on or about December 21, which is the Winter Solstice. The diagram at the top of this blog may help illustrate the general idea. Are the daylight hours and night-time really equal right now? No, because nothing in nature is quite that simple. There’s a lag time but I’m not going there.

[Balanced egg at the equator on the equinox. Source: GypsyNester.com}

It’s been said that at the moment of the Equinox, one can, if one desires, balance an egg. But this supposedly can only be done at the Equator. As a Science Teacher, I told my Sixth graders about this once in the late 1990’s. I challenged them. Two boys produced a photo (before digital) of a “balanced egg” on a table on the terrace of their York Avenue apartment. I said: “Wow”. They walked away pleased and proud they pulled one-off on the old science guy. But, I think they propped the egg up with some Nutty Putty or Wrigley’s Chewing Gum. You can’t fool me.

[My attempt at balancing an egg failed. But the tomatoes look balanced. Source: my photo]

So, I’ll be back to discuss the Solstice sometime in December. That’s a whole different diagram. A whole different story.

And you can’t do anything with an egg except scramble it (or poach it).

 

The Night Lauren Bacall Heard Me Cough

[Photo source: IMDb]

I lived for almost thirty years on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It’s an artsy neighborhood. And it’s not uncommon to cross paths with famous people, most often actors. My wife was in the Blockbuster Video store, in line behind Michael J. Fox.

“I think your next,” he said to Mariam.

“And I think you’re great,” she said to him.

She stood in line at Fairway on Broadway behind Francis McDormond.

“I love your work,” Mariam said.

“Thank you,” replied the Oscar-winning actor.

I had a moment of greatness too. I went into our neighborhood Mexican restaurant…Gabriella’s. I calmly walked passed a chubby guy sitting at one of our favorite outside tables…with his family. He had cut off denim shorts, a thin wife and a hefty kid or two.

It was James Gandolfini. Tony Soprano was sitting at my table. I didn’t raise a fuss. I’ve been to Jersey City. I knew the deal. First come, first serve.

That was life in New York City!

Let’s go back in time. It’s 1984. I’m an exchange teacher in Dorset, England. I befriended a young woman when I signed up for a screen-printing and etching course at the Poole Arts Center. I made sure I sat near her. She was pretty and a very good artist…and a gourmet cook.  I still have one of her etchings on my wall. She was a mid-wife, a surf-boarder and a sweet attractive woman. We became friends. We went out for eats and a pint or two after class. She promised me she’d teach me how to wind-surf in Poole harbor. We never got to do it.

But one thing we did get to do was see a play.

I had tickets to the Salisbury Playhouse production of Sweet Bird of Youth.  I asked her if she would like to go. Yes, she said.

[This is the movie with Paul Newman and Geraldine Page. Photo is mine.]

“How about dinner?”, I asked.

“I’m a good cook what do you think you would like?”, she said. I made a joke. “Oh. Shrimp Scampi and some caviar.”

She picked me up in her MG (mounted with a wind-surfer board rack). She had a picnic basket. I peaked inside. There was shrimp scampi, caviar and a bottle of white wine. We spread a blanket on the lawn in front of the main entrance of Salisbury Cathedral. The air was crisp. The food was awesome. The view was breathtaking.

We finished and made our way to our seats at the Playhouse. The lights went down. Sweet Bird of Youth began. Lauren Bacall was playing aging actress. I don’t recall the leading man.

That’s when Lauren and I connected.

There was a scene where she was lounging on a bed, waiting for her lover. The theater was stone quiet. The silence was intense. But the need in my throat couldn’t linger. I needed to cough.

I coughed.

She didn’t look into the audience like they do now days when a cell phone goes off. But, I knew she HAD to have heard me cough. There was no other sound. Only me.

Years later, I flipped through her autobiography in a narrow aisle at a Barnes & Noble. I found no reference to me, the cough, the disruption, or the shrimp scampi. I wonder how long my cough stayed with her.

I have a feeling that I was no match for Bogie.

“You know how to cough, don’t you? You just lower your head and make a gasping sound.”

So What Does A Man Do?

Okay, you read my last post. You know how males hormones can get out of control. Am I right?

So, what did I do after we got to the hotel, and after we met my son and his girlfriend?  I did what every red-blooded American male lover does.

I went to a topless bar down somewhere on 21st. Street and 10th Avenue.  A very desirable location, so I’ve heard, for more reasons than one.

The place glared with red neon…that’s a good thing in that part of town.  It was called “GA-GA’S”…or something like that.  Does it matter?

[Photo source: Google]

I sat at the bar next to the next dancer.  She said her name was Maxie.  I paid $9.00 for my beer and $375.00 for her glass of “champagne”.  For a moment I was in love.  Then I caught a look at her college ID.  Her name was Dierdre and she was a candidate for a Masters in Developmental Psychology at NYU.

This is NOT to say that strippers can’t be candidates for any degree.  But, there was something…..

She looked at me as if she were interested in me…in being her next subject in her Thesis.

She asked my name.  I said: “Patrick and I’m a writer blogger kind of guy.”

Maxie looked at me and said:  “I’ve seen your type way too often. You’ve been caught in traffic too long, my friend.  See ya later.”

I left and tried to catch a cab for my hotel.

The traffic was hell.

 

 

April Idyll

[Source: Wikipedia]

If you’re like me, you have a lot of time on your hands.  Maybe too much.  I’ve found that staring out of the window at the daily accumulation of snow passes the time quite well.  Sometimes I stand close to the window and my breath fogs the glass.  Remember that scene in Dr. Zhivago?  Unbelievably, this can get a little boring so my default action is to find something to update on my laptop…and watch the bar at the bottom of the screen move to the right, making my computer a better thing to own.

I found myself staring out of the window this afternoon.  There was plenty of action at the suet cage and feeder as the birds (saw a Tanager today) fill up on sunflower seeds.  Of course, they should be busy nesting and mating but there’s no time for hanky-panky when survival is a first concern.  My hearing is still above average for someone my age, so I know I wasn’t mistaken when I heard two Finches talking:

“We came back from Capistrano for this?”

Another easy way to break the mid-spring blues is to book an appointment with your eye doctor.

So I did.

I knew there might be trouble when I sat down in the waiting room and began to shuffle through the magazines.  A copy of National Geographic caught my attention.  There was a rock climber on the cover so I was naturally interested.  I used to rock climb, back in the day.  My friend Greg and I would drive to the “Gunks in the Catskills and walk around with a brilliantly colored Perlon rope and lots of climbing hardware like carabiners and chocks.  The gear clanked a lot and we liked that.  We were good, and the more we climbed, the better we got.  I guess that’s an obvious thing, that practice makes perfect.

But, I digress.

As I turned the pages in the Geographic, something felt amiss.  I checked the cover.  It was the April issue so it should have been filled with the hot new stories from around the world.  But, something was still amiss.  I checked the cover again.  It was April alright, but the year was 1996.  I did some simple head math and realized that I was holding a magazine that was 22 years old.  What does that say about my doctor?  What equipment did he have back there?  Call me naive but did they even use eye charts back in the mid-1990’s?  I doubt it.

I put the Geographic down and began to go through the other offerings that were there to make the time easy passing.  I saw a Country Living, six copies of Highlights, four copies of Bow Hunter, the latest issues of Golf, People and Time.  Under those I discovered a six month old Reader’s Digest, two issues of Good Housekeeping, one copy of Rotarian and one copy of Where To Retire.  I prayed the doctor was running late.  I had a lot of reading to do.

It was then that I saw the Holy Grail of doctor’s office magazines.  The Pennysaver.  Pinch me, I’m in heaven.

I began to leaf through the issue.  So much to get and so little time.  There was a quarter pager ad with the heading: MILITARY SURPLUS.  The first item in the ad was for Black and White Mickey Mouse Boots.  Did I miss something in some war?

The next page had a small ad that simply asked: GOT MUD?  There was a phone number listed but I forgot to jot it down.  Next page sported an ad: ELVIS COLLECTIBLES.  The location was Malone, about 30 miles to the north.  What poor soul’s life had gone so bad in Malone to force him or her to part with anything about Elvis?  I made a mental note to not look for real estate in Malone.  On the same page was a large ad that said: WARNING: DON’T BE A VICTIM OF ‘GHOST’ TAX PREPARERS.  Ghost tax preparers.  There’s a story there somewhere but I didn’t have time to make notes.

They were calling me.  It was my turn.  I asked for a moment to check one last ad.  ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE CARS 1937-1977.  I almost tore the ad from the page.  Here, finally, was my 1952 MG!  Just before I ditched the paper, I caught sight of one last ad.  It was for a free bag of Real Country Dog Food.  When I saw the words: U Pick Up, I headed back to the exam room.

My head was spinning.

I sat in a reddish dentist-like chair.  There was a chart of the Anatomy of the Human Eye.  I wondered how they got this drawing.  Someone had to have had their eye sliced in half longitudinally.  I shuddered.

The nurse left to get something and the doctor hadn’t yet seen me.  I was free to look around.  I was quite startled when I looked at the wall in front of me.  There was a mirror and it reflected the eye chart that was on the wall behind me.  Now, if it was being reflected in the mirror, the chart had to be printed backwards.  Sounds like a lot of trouble.  Why didn’t they just pin a chart to the wall and forget the mirror?

[So where is my reflection?]

The mirror.  That’s when things got really spooky.  I was looking directly at the mirror, but there was no reflection of me.  Now, I know that happens in vampire movies, so I had to think things over.  This was scary.

I’d rather be back home staring out at the snow falling than to sit in an exam room and hope I was wasn’t among the living dead.

[All photos are mine except where otherwise noted.]

 

Reading Lamp

[The Ideal Reading Lamp.  Photo source: Me.]

Other than a wind storm that blew in a window in our screened-in porch, downed branches and howled like a demon on Bald Mountain, there really isn’t very much to write about these days.  I should note that the aforementioned window has not been removed, for cleaning or otherwise, by us in several summers.  It was simply too stuck to remove.  Perhaps the house has shifted on its foundation over the years moving the windows (plastic inserts, really) into misalignment.

Whatever.  The wind took care of all that last night.  To make matters even more difficult, the power went out while we were struggling in the frigid porch.  At one point, I felt like Captain Blood battling with the mainsail in a typhoon off the coast of Tasmania.  I felt like Heathcliff on the Yorkshire Moors.  I felt like Scott in the Antarctic.  I felt like Sir Edmund on the summit of Everest.  I felt like Dorothy during the tornado in Kansas.

I felt like all these people, but it was only me and Mariam on a freezing evening in April.

Life in the North Country.

Life in the North Country. There is the ever-present darkness, arriving early in the winter but not soon enough in the early spring.  A very fine segue, if I say so myself, to bring up and write about reading lamps.

Go ahead.  Google “Reading Light”.  You will come up with hundreds of choices from places like Lowe’s, Wal-Mart, Amazon and L.L.Bean.  And the lights themselves?  The designs will look like something from Captain Kirk’s room, a toddler’s bedside stand, a bordello in New Orleans or from a dark corner in the recesses of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

All of those models shown are functional, to a point.  Most of them are of fine quality.  Some, absolute works of art.  But it’s what they have in common that’s interesting.

They dispel the darkness and allow you to pull a Kindle, iPhone or even, heaven forbid, a book made of paper up to your chest and put you in touch with the written word.

For me, there’s an added factor.  I have an innate fear of the dark.  My reading lamp allows me to exist in a cone of light where I am safe.  Where nothing can get to me from under the bed.  Where I can doze and wake and still see around me…into the dark corners where dark things of all sorts and sizes dwell.

I can lean into my latest New Yorker magazine, my newest copy of a Jo Nesbo mystery.  Perhaps I’ll read a few more pages of Proust (I’m determined to read The Book while I can still breath).  Maybe I’ll dig deep enough into the pile beside my bed and find the second book of the Hornblower series.

During the course of my reading life, I’ve gone through dozens of lamps.  It’s hard to believe, but I’ve only found a handful that suit me and my needs.  As I grow older, I find I need more light, but I can’t use the large lamp on my nightstand…Mariam is asleep only a few inches away.

There’s always the old stand-by, my headlamp.  It’s the way I read when I’m camping and don’t want to risk the more romantic candle in a tent with down sleeping-bags.  And who can really read by candlelight, anyway?  Maybe Abraham Lincoln…and look where it got him.  Besides, a headlamp leaves a reddish mark around my forehead.  I can’t get up and wander to the bathroom at 3:30 am looking like I just had a cranial tattoo done in a shop off Sunset Strip.

The lamp I am presently using is an older high-intensity light. These lights pre-dated the LED’s that are so commonplace today.  The only drawback to this lamp (it provides great illumination) is that it gets hot.  So hot, that if I accidentally touch the area near the bulb with oven mittens, I will burn off three layers of my epidermis.  And, I can tell you from experience that one will have trouble sleeping with the odor of burnt human flesh in the bedroom.

This is the lamp I now use:

[My reading lamp.  I had to turn the build away to keep it from blowing out the camera in my iPhone.  Photo source: It is obviously mine.  Do you think I would let some stranger in to take a picture of my light at 12:39 am?]

In our guest bedroom is a typical Adirondack-themed reading lamp.  I have no idea if any of our house guests read at night…but we provide one anyway.  For me, the cone of light is too small to fully illuminate my book.  It looks cute but I would rate its functionality at 4/10.

[Guest bedroom reading lamp.  Photo source: Me.]

To put the light out on this blog post, I can say that my favorite reading lamp (pictured at the top of this post) is both esthetically beautiful, functional, simple and gentle on my eyes.

The problem is: it’s located in a small hotel in Knowlton, Quebec, Canada.

And, I don’t steal things.

 

NASA Director Sends Wife To The Moon

[A rare photo of the then Mr. Kramden, with wife, Alice and neighbor, Edward Norton. (ca. late 1950’s). Source: Google search]

Washington, D.C.

The Chief of NASA, Dr. Ralph Kramden, has big plans to celebrate his wife’s birthday.  He intends to send her, literally  to the earth’s only satellite, the moon.

A short time ago, Dr. Kramden finally succeeded in making a large sum of money on a project, that together with his friend and neighbor, Mr. Edward Norton, had been working on for many years.  With his new-found wealth, Mr. Kramden enrolled in the Aerospace Department of the University of Brooklyn.  He eventually earned his doctorate by emerging himself in cutting edge research regarding the legendary and elusive propellent factor utilizing the positive spin of the negative Higgs-Boson particle coupled with the entropic variations of the magnetic properties of the Fermion and Charm quarks when related to the Absolute Zero behaviors of the graviton particle in zero gravity isolation.

This was a continuation of his sixth grade science fair project he presented when he attended The Town School in Manhattan.

The news of the intended lunar mission came on the heels of President Donald Trump’s public dedication of his deep-seated interest in research into such topics as climate change, evolution and space exploration.

“I am signing this Executive Order to relocate $15,000,000,000 to pure scientific endeavors…good things…for scientists…great people…for the pure joy of knowledge even if there is no immediate monetary return.  I remember hearing that we have laptops because of the space program…good stuff,” said the President at a recent news conference.

“Now, with this funding, I can give my wife, Alice, what I’ve always promised her.  I used to tease her when we lived at our old apartment at 328 Chauncey Street in Bensonhurst that someday it was going to be ‘Bang, Zoom…to the moon!'” said Dr. Kramden.  He was flanked at the press conference, held appropriately at the Air & Space Museum on the Capital Mall, by Alice and his Associate Director, Dr. Edward Norton (Sanitation Specialist for the International Space Station).

The Marine Band stood below him on the white marble steps.  When he completed his prepared statement, the band began playing Dr. Kramden’s own composition, You’re My Greatest Love.

When Dr. Kramden turned to his future astronaut-wife, he was heard by many to whisper: “Baby, you’re the greatest.”

This reporter had difficulty finding a dry eye in the crowd of 12,000 who had gathered in the heavy rain to hear the historic announcement for themselves.

This is a great day for America and a great day for Brooklyn!