Upon learning today about an article entitled “Oldest Living Thing On Earth Discovered” in The Telegraph, humorist Dave Barry immediately created a post with the title “Incredibly, It’s Not Keith Richards”....
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Say what?
This, my 914th post, reminds me that I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968.
Do you know why?
I don’t mean do you know why I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968. That one’s easy: After being honorably discharged from the United States Air Force, I was hired by IBM to work there.
I meant do you know why this, my 914th post, reminds me that I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968.
Your trivia fix for the day: The name Poughkeepsie is derived from the Native American term Uppu-qui-ipis-in, which means “reed-covered hut by the water.” The water in question is the Hudson River. The area includes Vassar College (alma mater of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis) and a large IBM campus noted for its ongoing development and manufacturing of IBM mainframes (first post-military workplace of the noted blogger rhymeswithplague).
This will be an open-book test. Take as much time as you need.
Photo by Daniel Case, 2008. Used under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation.
Editor’s note. Dear reader, the answer to my question can be found in the comments section of this post. --RWP
Do you know why?
I don’t mean do you know why I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968. That one’s easy: After being honorably discharged from the United States Air Force, I was hired by IBM to work there.
I meant do you know why this, my 914th post, reminds me that I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968.
Your trivia fix for the day: The name Poughkeepsie is derived from the Native American term Uppu-qui-ipis-in, which means “reed-covered hut by the water.” The water in question is the Hudson River. The area includes Vassar College (alma mater of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis) and a large IBM campus noted for its ongoing development and manufacturing of IBM mainframes (first post-military workplace of the noted blogger rhymeswithplague).
This will be an open-book test. Take as much time as you need.
Editor’s note. Dear reader, the answer to my question can be found in the comments section of this post. --RWP
Monday, February 6, 2012
Post-game thoughts
If you’re anything like me (you’re probably not), you might be asking, “What game?”
I do have enough smarts about me to know that the game in question is Super Bowl XLVI (that’s 46 for any non-Romans in the crowd).
The Drudge Report is saying this morning that Super Bowl XLVI may have been the most watched program in TV history. According to those who keep track of such things, the game pulled a 47.8 rating (versus 47.9 last year) in the overnight ratings, the halftime show with Madonna drew a 48.3, the final 15 minutes of the game pulled 52.8, New York City reached 49.7, and in Boston the game was a 56.7 rating blowout. [Editor’s note. Remind journalism professors to teach their students about avoiding elegant variation. --RWP]
One of my daughter’s schoolteacher friends posted on her Facebook page that when Jack Nicholson was asked if he was going to the Super Bowl he said, “I’d rather drink bleach.”
My sentiments exactly.
We’re a lot alike, Jack and I.
In other news, at the end of our church service yesterday the teens stood at the door holding empty Soup Bowls (get it? instead of Super Bowls?) and took up a collection that will be sent to World Vision to help feed hungry children in third-world countries like Haiti and Somalia and Sudan.
I do have enough smarts about me to know that the game in question is Super Bowl XLVI (that’s 46 for any non-Romans in the crowd).
The Drudge Report is saying this morning that Super Bowl XLVI may have been the most watched program in TV history. According to those who keep track of such things, the game pulled a 47.8 rating (versus 47.9 last year) in the overnight ratings, the halftime show with Madonna drew a 48.3, the final 15 minutes of the game pulled 52.8, New York City reached 49.7, and in Boston the game was a 56.7 rating blowout. [Editor’s note. Remind journalism professors to teach their students about avoiding elegant variation. --RWP]
One of my daughter’s schoolteacher friends posted on her Facebook page that when Jack Nicholson was asked if he was going to the Super Bowl he said, “I’d rather drink bleach.”
My sentiments exactly.
We’re a lot alike, Jack and I.
In other news, at the end of our church service yesterday the teens stood at the door holding empty Soup Bowls (get it? instead of Super Bowls?) and took up a collection that will be sent to World Vision to help feed hungry children in third-world countries like Haiti and Somalia and Sudan.
Speaking of time and tide...
I am reminded of King Canute or Cnut or whatever you want to call him.
Here’s a poem I wrote many years ago as though I were he. [Editor's note. Notice my use of the subjunctive mood, which indicates that my being King Cnut is an impossibility. Notice also my use of the possessive pronoun to modify the gerund in the preceding sentence. Finally, notice far fewer exclamation points in the poem below than it contained the other two times I posted it on this blog. --RWP]
Canute (994?-1035)
by Robert H. Brague
I, King of all the Britons, and Denmark mine as well.
My star approaches zenith. In Caesar’s train I dwell.
More kingdoms to be conquered, and all shall be laid low.
And feudal lords shall bear me liege wherever I may go.
And shall I stop at kingdoms? Nay, tarry here and see:
The winds and waves shall hearken, and both bow down to me.
No more shall raging ocean erode this harried shore.
But it shall do my bidding, as Christ’s in days of yore.
No more shall sea advance upon the gray and shifting sand.
Now cease your endless churning! Subside at my command!
It is Divinely ordered. You must obey my will.
In God’s name I command you. Hear and hearken: “Peace! Be still!”
But can I be mistaken? And can I be denied?
My words have no effect! Still onward comes the tide!
The swirling eddy rises! The tide attacks my knees!
It hears commands more regal than this lowly creature’s pleas!
God’s kingdom is eternal, mine but of measured span.
What foolishness emerges from the haughty heart of man.
I am but mortal monarch -- oh, hear my fool’s heart cry --
‘Tis chastened by the deafness of a greater king than I.
I don’t know, somehow it loses something without those exclamation points. Falls flat. Feel free to disagree. [Editor’s note. Click on the Labels section below to view the other two posts. --RWP]
Here’s a poem I wrote many years ago as though I were he. [Editor's note. Notice my use of the subjunctive mood, which indicates that my being King Cnut is an impossibility. Notice also my use of the possessive pronoun to modify the gerund in the preceding sentence. Finally, notice far fewer exclamation points in the poem below than it contained the other two times I posted it on this blog. --RWP]
Canute (994?-1035)
by Robert H. Brague
I, King of all the Britons, and Denmark mine as well.
My star approaches zenith. In Caesar’s train I dwell.
More kingdoms to be conquered, and all shall be laid low.
And feudal lords shall bear me liege wherever I may go.
And shall I stop at kingdoms? Nay, tarry here and see:
The winds and waves shall hearken, and both bow down to me.
No more shall raging ocean erode this harried shore.
But it shall do my bidding, as Christ’s in days of yore.
No more shall sea advance upon the gray and shifting sand.
Now cease your endless churning! Subside at my command!
It is Divinely ordered. You must obey my will.
In God’s name I command you. Hear and hearken: “Peace! Be still!”
But can I be mistaken? And can I be denied?
My words have no effect! Still onward comes the tide!
The swirling eddy rises! The tide attacks my knees!
It hears commands more regal than this lowly creature’s pleas!
God’s kingdom is eternal, mine but of measured span.
What foolishness emerges from the haughty heart of man.
I am but mortal monarch -- oh, hear my fool’s heart cry --
‘Tis chastened by the deafness of a greater king than I.
I don’t know, somehow it loses something without those exclamation points. Falls flat. Feel free to disagree. [Editor’s note. Click on the Labels section below to view the other two posts. --RWP]
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Three irrefutable proofs that time and tide wait for no man
May it please the court, I place into evidence Exhibit A:
Gandalf the Old:
and Gandalf the Young:
Exhibit B:
President and Mrs. Clinton (Bill and Hillary) arriving at Beekman Arms in Rhinebeck, New York, for their daughter Chelsea’s wedding the following day:
and at their own:
and Exhibit C:
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please look to your right. In the sidebar are photographs of your correspondent taken approximately 70 years apart.
Your Honor, may we take a short recess? I am too depressed to continue at this time.
Gandalf the Old:
and Gandalf the Young:
Exhibit B:
President and Mrs. Clinton (Bill and Hillary) arriving at Beekman Arms in Rhinebeck, New York, for their daughter Chelsea’s wedding the following day:
and at their own:
and Exhibit C:
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please look to your right. In the sidebar are photographs of your correspondent taken approximately 70 years apart.
Your Honor, may we take a short recess? I am too depressed to continue at this time.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Bubbles burst While-U-Wait
Groundhog Day, February 2nd, has come and gone. This year any illusions I might have retained from days gone by about the accuracy of meteorologic prognostications by certain oversized rodents came crashing down yesterday morning.
I was in my car around 9:00 a.m. and the sun, which had been up for over an hour and a half, was shining brightly, as it had been doing all morning. I turned my radio on to catch the news.
Prominently featured among the stories was the fact that the world’s most famous groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil of Gobbler’s Knob, Pennsylvania (I don’t know why he isn’t in Punxsutawney and frankly, I don’t care), had seen his shadow and had scampered back into his burrow, thus assuring that six more weeks of winter was in the offing. It was then reported that Atlanta’s local equivalent of Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee of Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia (never mind that heretofore his reporting has been from Stone Mountain), had not seen his shadow and thus we would be enjoying an early spring.
I nearly drove off the road.
Make that I nearly drove off the road, blinded by the sunshine.
We have already been enjoying an early spring. This winter has been much milder than last year’s, and splashes of purple phlox and yellow forsythia and a few jonquils are already showing up here and there. The temperature has even made it into the seventies a time or two. That wasn’t what made me nearly drive off the road.
What made me nearly drive off the road was trying to figure out how General Beauregard Lee could have avoided seeing his shadow when there was nary (all us old Southerners say nary) a cloud in the sky and I was reaching for my sunglasses.
This put me to thinking that perhaps General Beauregard Lee is nothing more than a mute mammal and it is his human handlers and publicists, in cahoots with the weather departments at the local television stations, who decide what the breathlessly-awaited annual announcement will be.
Yes, Virginia, there may be a Santa Claus, but there is not, alas,
a reliable groundhog in these parts.
I was in my car around 9:00 a.m. and the sun, which had been up for over an hour and a half, was shining brightly, as it had been doing all morning. I turned my radio on to catch the news.
Prominently featured among the stories was the fact that the world’s most famous groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil of Gobbler’s Knob, Pennsylvania (I don’t know why he isn’t in Punxsutawney and frankly, I don’t care), had seen his shadow and had scampered back into his burrow, thus assuring that six more weeks of winter was in the offing. It was then reported that Atlanta’s local equivalent of Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee of Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia (never mind that heretofore his reporting has been from Stone Mountain), had not seen his shadow and thus we would be enjoying an early spring.
I nearly drove off the road.
Make that I nearly drove off the road, blinded by the sunshine.
We have already been enjoying an early spring. This winter has been much milder than last year’s, and splashes of purple phlox and yellow forsythia and a few jonquils are already showing up here and there. The temperature has even made it into the seventies a time or two. That wasn’t what made me nearly drive off the road.
What made me nearly drive off the road was trying to figure out how General Beauregard Lee could have avoided seeing his shadow when there was nary (all us old Southerners say nary) a cloud in the sky and I was reaching for my sunglasses.
This put me to thinking that perhaps General Beauregard Lee is nothing more than a mute mammal and it is his human handlers and publicists, in cahoots with the weather departments at the local television stations, who decide what the breathlessly-awaited annual announcement will be.
Yes, Virginia, there may be a Santa Claus, but there is not, alas,
a reliable groundhog in these parts.
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