Trying to use the Flip

curse it.

The dimensions of the Flip are 4.1 x 2.3 x 1.3 inches; but it comes encased in the mother and father of all blister packs, around the same size as the telephone book of a small city. Say Little Falls, NJ. It takes the blister pack to new heights of Blisterdom. The material is about 6 times thicker than your usual blister pack. It might as well have been kryptonite. In fact, the popemobile should be made of this material.

I attacked it with a box cutter, with no success. Then a scissors. Then a knife, the kind you slice meat with. Nothing made a dent in it. Mr Charm added his efforts to mine, with sound effects. He couldn't open it either.

So here we were, two supposedly competent adults, bested by a $^&#&**# piece of plastic. What could we do, call 911?

Feeling like an idiot, I took it to my neighborhood hardware store, one of those places which, though small, has everything you need plus a competent staff. I asked them whether they had a tool to open blister packs. There is no such tool.

But these guys considered the blister pack a challenge which involved every member of the staff, so they finally got it open, working together as a team.

After removing the outer casing, we found that the Flip itself was encased in a smaller piece of the same material. It was removed, not without effort and a few muttered curses.
,
I looked at the Amazon.com website to see if anyone else had complaints about the blister pack. None. Nul. Niente.

So--fellow Amazon customers: did you have trouble getting the thing out of the blister pack? What implement did you use? Or is there some obvious way of doing this which eluded me?


After all that hoopla, how does it work?

It doesn't. I'm sending it back.

Clergy report

I was thinking about the Rev Wright's "snippets" which were taken "out of context," the poor dear. No doubt the rest of his sermons were bursting with the love of his fellow man, along with faith, hope, and charity.

This got me thinking about the parade of rabbis I have met down through the years. The ones I heard when I was a kid didn't make much impression on me; their sermons just seemed death-defyingly long. But I've encountered at least half-a-dozen since then. Some were good speakers, some were boring, but I don't remember any of them saying anything mean about Gentiles along the way or telling us how rotten our country was. Mostly they just explicated the Torah or discussed the holiday we were celebrating or the prayers we were reciting, or spoke about the importance of Israel. The worst things they said were mild criticisms of Palestinian suicide bombers. A common theme was being kind to others and giving money to charity, but usually the actual arm-twisting was turned over to a member of the laity who was better at it. I seem to remember that the air-conditioning system and the leaky roof were often mentioned.

Not a snippet in the bunch. Their sermons could be safely broadcast to the whole world without any result except for perhaps putting the listeners to sleep, thus making it dangerous to listen to them while driving or using heavy machinery. Perhaps they just had too much to say on other topics, like how to clean the kitchen for Passover. (It involves a wooden spoon, a candle and a feather, if you must know.)

No use worrying about global warming...

We've all been dead from the new ice age for years. Or we've starved to death, and most of the earth is covered with tundra.

So eat, drink, and be merry, you miserable remnants of a decimated world population.

Put a poem in your pocket day report

I informed everyone, did I not, of Put a Poem in Your Pocket Day, April 17? Then you whip it out and have a conversation about it with the people you meet.

I decided to try it. I chose this one:

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

and duly put it in my pocket(book). I was carrying a purse that day--no pocket.

I showed it to my dry cleaner; Ron, the auto repairman; and all the members of the Delaware Symphony Gala committee, but none of them had time to discuss it. The reference librarian at the local public library offered to find me critical literature about the poem, but said she was too busy to have a conversation about Wordsworth.

Some time later, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find two nicely dressed, smiling women, who were as polite and cordial as they could be. They just wanted a few minutes of my time to tell me about the Jehovah's Witnesses. I told them I would be happy to hear all about it, but first I wanted them to read and discuss my poem, which I just happened to have in my pocket(book).

They promised to return when they had more time, and backed carefully down the stoop. When they hit the sidewalk, they broke into a ladylike trot.

Nobody really has time for poetry any more.

A poet's muse has died

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn has died at 92.

Joan Jackson, who died on April 11 aged 92, was in her earlier life Joan Hunter Dunn, the inspiration for Sir John Betjeman's most popular poem, A Subaltern's Love-song, ...- and conjured up his reverie about them being affianced and playing tennis together:

What strenuous singles we played after tea,

We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,

With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,

I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,

How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you've won,

The warm-handled racket is back in its press,

But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Could this possibly be George Bush's fault?

It must be.

Isn't he responsible for everything that goes wrong in the world?

Two poems

To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell


Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.



O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare

Poem of the day

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

Appalling news

Oh the horror!

My worst nightmare

...getting stuck in an elevator alone.

I know it's irrational to be afraid of elevators. I am queasy about being in a closed space, anyway, like a subway tunnel, but I gain courage through the presence of other people. Surely the Powers That Be would not allow a whole lot of people to be stuck in an elevator or subway car forever, but if it was just me, who would miss someone as insignificant as me? Nobody, probably. My children would probably wonder what had happened to me, but would eventually conclude that I had run away from home to live in the deep woods under the name of Sanders, as I am always threatening to do.

I would be alone with my soul, and that's not enough company. Even one other person, unless he were a paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies, would be a comfort. We could play geography, me and my sole companion, or talk about what kind of a meal we would eat when we got out. We could speculate about what was keeping our rescuers, and grumble about the kind of help you get nowadays. We could tell each other long boring stories about trips we had taken. If there were significant light in the elevator car/tunnel, we could show each other pictures of our grandchildren. It would be boring, but the time would pass.

I once spent a month in a hotel where the elevators didn't work half the time. It was owned by a fellow named MacArthur, the very same man who died and left his fortune to be spent on genius grants. This hotel had exceeded its shelf life, and should have been torn down years before. But MacArthur was a rich man and could indulge himself as he pleased. The air conditioners kept breaking down as well. In the summer. In south Florida. Maintenance crews were always trying to fix the air conditioners, with limited success. And so it was with the elevators. MacArthur also allowed millions of ducks to pollute the grounds of his hotel. But I digress.

It would not have been prudent for me to hole up in my room for a whole month, so I conceived a strategy for riding in the elevator. I packed my bag with books, magazines, and the newspapers, and when the elevator stalled I just hunkered down and caught up with my reading. Fortunately, the lights never went out during my stay.

Poets disagree about April

There's T S Eliot:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Whereas Chaucer believes it is a nice time for a trip:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
The Droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye, -
So priketh hem nature in hir corage:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages -

and Robert Frost is ambivalent:

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You´re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you´re two months back in the middle of March.

Also posted on Carnival of the Insanities.

This poem is for today

I always think of this poem at this time of year:

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

A new Carnival of the Insanities

Worth a visit.

How many 5-year-olds can you fight?

10

I'm a lush.

83%LUSH

April is Poetry Month--remember?

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe
1599

The fun side of Passover

These are quite popular, it seems.


Finger puppets of the ten plagues.

I don't get it. Plagues are fun? I fail to see the light side of boils and cattle disease, and the thought of the death of first-born babies doesn't even evoke a slight smile.

These plagues were serious s--t, folks. You don't want to get God mad at you. Ask the Egyptians.

Longwood, April 2008

 

Tulips

An age being mathematical, these flowers
Of linear stalks and spheroid blooms were prized
By men with wakened, speculative minds,
And when with mathematics they explored
The Macrocosm, and came at last to
The Vital Spirit of the World, and named it
Invisible Pure Fire, or, say, the Light,
The Tulips were the Light's receptacles.
The gold, the bronze, the red, the bright-swart Tulips!
No emblems they for us who no more dream
Of mathematics burgeoning to light
With Newton's prism and Spinoza's lens,
Or berkeley's ultimate, Invisible Pure Fire.
In colored state and carven brilliancy
We see them now, or, more illumined,
In sudden fieriness, as flowers fit
To go with vestments red on Pentecost.


Padraic Colum

If you've ever wanted a yodeling pickle

here it is.

I've always wanted one, haven't you?

Put a poem in your pocket day, April 17, 2008

Put a poem in your pocket in honor of National Poetry Month.

Here's a fragment of one I like:

L'Allegro

Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise...

John Milton