A Few Words

I am known as a man of few words.

So I thought I'd share some of them with you.

The most common are: yes; no; maybe; perhaps; hmmm.

Then  there are the positives: wonderful; great; good idea; let's do it; great shot (never tell a golfer he hit a terrible shot--he knows).

The negatives: No way; don't do (say) that; not me; you sure about that; I'm out.

Indecisive: I don't know; let me think about that; that's interesting; hmmm (all purpose).

Challenging: Where'd you get that idea? Who says? You're kidding! No way; humph  (used with a disparagng sneer)

You can see right away that most of these utterances are potential conversation snuffers, hence my reputation.

The truth is, its my experience most people are more interested in what THEY have to say than anything I (you) might offer.

Comments, anyone?

Hardly

Hardly, TN, (MFP) — I’m gearing up for the 2020 census here. Hope the census taker can find me, here in Hardly,  hardly anyone else can.

See, this is such an it-of-the-way place, hardly anyone ever comes here. Not on any map, so hardly anyone can find it (me). I stumbled across it myself, by accident of course. Hardly remember how or when. Does is matter? I’m here and ready to be counted.

Name: Howard Hardly.

Address: Hardly, TN. 

Can you be more specific?

No need to, hardly anyone else here,

All right: occupation?

Hardly any.

Does that mean unemployed?

It means I hardly do anything.

How do you live?

You call this living? I hardly do. 

Family members living with you?

Humph, hardly. Look around, would you live here?

OK, closest neighbor? 

Right now, you are. Hardly anyone else can find this place. By the way, how’d you get here?

I’m the census taker, I get everywhere.

What’s your next stop?

Tentative, TN.  I think.

You’re not sure?

Well, you, of all people, should know how it is.

Hardly. 

Tennis Ball, Anyone?

Now that the major tennis tournamnents are over for the year, it's fair to ask: what happens to all those balls the players discard with such disdain before selecting just the perfect one to serve?

Sure some go for aces, some go wide, some go short and some are even returned, usually to the surprise of the server. "Hmm, that was winner, ###%$^."

Now the women are another category, bless 'em. They get one ball at a time  to serve and seem to be very happy about it.

So what's with the guys? They take a handful of balls, stare at them them intenseley, toss one away and tuck another into their pants.

Was that first ball not yellow enough? Did it have too much fuzz? Was it, heaven forbid, not round enough? Too heavy? Too light? Not my sponsors?

I bet that with all that introspection about what ball to use, it comess back into play anyway some time later in the match. Think they recognize it? Not a chance.

So why all the ball-selection fuss? Just take a deep breath and serve the innocent thing.

Fore! Oops, wrong sport.

Thursday the mail comes late

How do we know? Because we wait for it every day and Thursday the mail arrives around 5 p.m. That’s late.

Who waits for mail, you ask? Fair question. It’s a habit ingrained in the past when the mail brought information, checks, greeting cards, invitations, condolences, announcements, etc. So much of that now is delivered electronically. Sorry, it’s not the same. 

Thursday is also supermarket flyer day. We look at two and throw out the rest. It’s not a coincidence that our town recycles cardboard and all paper products because that’s what we discard each day with the mail.

Mail even sounds different. When real mail comes through the slot in our door it lands with a bang, or thud, depending in the bulk of the flyers. Email makes a different sound, a beep, a gong, whatever. Still mostly spam.

And real mail is delivered by a real person you can get to know over time. That’s how we know when to expect our mail. We know the routine.

Long live real mail. 

Out of Sorts?

August 24, 2019

Where do I get some sorts?

We’ve all had that felling of being “out of sorts,” at one time or another. But how do you get a refill? And where?

Well, according to my internet research, unless you are a typographer working with metal letters, you’re out of luck, as are topographers working in metal letters. There ain’t hardly any of them left today, says he, typing on a PC, which are never out of letters.

So, in case you’re interested: the phrase “out of sorts,” is traced back to the first days of movable type when each metal letter was in its own box, “sorted” as to kind, so to speak, before being placed in a word.

When that box became empty, much to the annoyance of the typographer, he was out of that sort of letter, hence “out of sorts” and thus subject to foul humor.

Which gives us the source of our malady but not a clue how to cure it other than to deal with it and move on.

##

Capital Banishment

I just noticed a New York Times editorial referred to my home county as “the Bronx.” Not The Bronx, just the Bronx. Lower case “t.”

The Bronx has been The Bronx as long I can remember. I was born there in 1931. They were very strict in PS90, teaching us that the name of our borough was The Bronx, capital T. When was the Bronx decapitalized?

The other New York City boroughs have no “the’s.” They’re simply Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn and Staten Island. But we were always The Bronx. With a Capital T.

So if you refer The Bronx at all, please address it properly, with a capital T.

It’s the least you can do. 

Muddling not alone...

I commend you to an Op-Ed column by Roger Cohen in Tuesday's NYTimes (2/23/16) titled Smartphone Era Politics, although it's more about the impact of today's technology than just smartphones.

I started the Muddling Marv Blog some years ago to express my frustration, as a former journalist, to come to terms with the the new technology.

I'm still baffled and still fume when landing in voice-mail jail when trying to reach a human being who might be able to resolve an issue or solve a problem. “This call may be monitored for etc. etc.,” is about as meaningless a phrase as ever coined. I'm positive no one monitors it because nothing changes. I hope our intelligence services receive such messages when they eavesdrop. Sweet justice!

But back to Roger Cohen. He writes: “I grew up with readers and by extension readership. The readers have vanished like migrating birds. They have been replaced by users and viewers and by audience. Verbal experience has given way to the visual experience. Where pages were turned, images are clicked. Words have been processed to form content, a commodity like any other. The letters have given way to the link.”

There is more to this excellent column but I resonate to one universal truth. He writes: “one thing young people don't do on their smart phones is actually speak to one another.”

Muddle on, Roger...

The Thing About Thursday

It's catch-up day. It's a day I get to sleep a little later because I don't have to be anywhere at a particular time. It's a day to do some errands I haven't had time to do earlier in the week.

It's the same kind of day for my wife, who doesn't have her exercise class on Thursday. It's a day for doctor's appointments, barbers, beauty parlor visits, casual shopping and reading the papers at a leisurely pace. Or just reading a book.

We could do the laundry, or not; a little light housekeeping, or not, or anything else that strikes us. Like posting a blog, perhaps. The point is: Thursday is completely our day.

I have always liked Thursdays. I think I was born on a Thursday and it's a day I have always looked forward to. It's past midweek but not quite the weekend. It also can be the start a four-day weekend when holidays align; the classic example being Thanksgiving Day declared by President Lincoln as the fourth Thursday of November.

To me it's a day like no other; it's just right.

Happy Thursday everyone.

The Currency Conundrum

Treasury Secretary Jack Lew stepped into it when he suggested a woman replace Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill. Of course he got more than he bargained for in the way of suggestions.

Jackson may deserve ousting but virtually all the other guys on our bills carry some negative baggage. Grant was a notorious anti-Semite, Ben Franklin was a womanizer, etc. Pick a bill and we probably can find something nasty about the guy who fronts it.

So, for the moment, let's forget about changing the current currency lineup. My wife has an alternative idea: She suggests we CREATE A NEW BILL, a $25 bill and put a worthy woman on it. Think how convenient that would be when you want to send a charitable donation or a gift and $20 seems cheap, $30 is awkward and $50 is too much. $25 would be just about right. And if fits nicely into our monetary system. Think four quarters make a dollar, four $25s make a hundred. Sweet.

As for who to put on the bill, my wife's' candidate is Eleanor Roosevelt, certainly a worthy choice. My personal preference is Sacajawea, the Shoshone Indian woman who guided Lewis and Clark through uncharted territory from Missouri to the Pacific Coast in 1804-05.

If she could get those intrepid explorers through such treacherous territory surely she could get Secretary Lew through his female forest.

Just sayin'.  

Busting the Boomers

I am a member of the “Silent Generation,” that cohort born between 1925 and 1945, many of whom served during the Korean War, including me. We were given the name by Time Magazine in an article that described us as “unimaginative, withdrawn, unadventurous and cautious.” Maybe it was because we didn't subscribe.

Then came that group called the “Baby Boomers,” to which we contributed two.

Now I read the first Boomers are approaching their 70's with the usual fanfare and hand-wringing associated with this self-absorbed group. Having been there, done that, I can't get too excited about their generational milestone. Frankly, my dears, I'm kind of tired of hearing about the Boomers and all they've done to:

a) improve our lives,

b) screw up our lives,

c) become a damn nuisance.

I never understood the fuss made over them just because there were so many of them. And now the fuss continues because they are reaching a certain age. Hell, when we “Silents” reached that age no one made a fuss over us. 

Am I jealous or grouchy or just plain ornery? Or maybe I should just keep “silent.”

What We Saved

In my time I saved the daily newspapers of historical events; FDR's death, JFK's assassination, the moon landing, etc. And Life and Look magazines reporting as well. They meant something to me then and I thought they would mean something to my children.

The newspapers were yellowed and brittle but they came not only from New York papers that still exist but from those that do not: The Mirror, The Herald-Tribune, The Journal-American. 

My wife saved other things; bric-a-brac from her mother's home and virtually every letter I wrote to her from Japan when I was in the army there in 1953-54. I also have several dishes and a bowl from my mother's home and the wooden chair my father used when he sat at the head of our Seder table.

My son pointed out this stuff is not “Antiques Roadshow” material. But in the antiques roadshow of our memories they are “priceless.”

We threw out some of the old newspapers. I'm saving the rest of the stuff for him. Have fun, Rob.  

A Retro New Year

We started our New Year's Eve with Artie Shaw's “Any Old Time,” smoothly transitioning to “Rosalie” followed by “Deep Purple” and more from our CD of “The Best of Artie Shaw.”

Those of you of a certain age will remember Artie Shaw, a great clarinetist probably most famous for his rendition of “Begin the Beguine,” my personal favorite. That recording took us through dinner.

Then we adjourned to the couch to watch a Robin Williams classic, “Good Morning, Vietnam.” in which he plays an over-the-top DJ in his own battle with an Army officer who refuses to let him report on the escalating war. Could have been written today about our involvement in the Middle East.

Ended the evening watching a silly movie with Martin Short and Danny Glover which I won't mention further. Then watched the ball drop in Times Square and went to bed.

Continued our Retro New Year at breakfast with Tommy Dorsey and Frank Sinatra and, boy, did Sinatra sound young. The final notes of our Retro New Year were tooted by Harry James, literally and figuratively, “The Man With a Horn.” Vocals by Dick Haymes, Kitty Kallen, Helen Forrest, and Betty Grable, who later became his wife (for a while).

Danced the New Year in, in our memories.

Happy 2016 everyone.

Trumpelstiltskin

He may not be able to spin straw into gold but he sure can spin his way into the Republican presidential picture.

His resemblance to the imp in the famous Grimm fairy tale is remarkable. He has the same golden locks of the miller’s daughter in the original. But all he is spinning now is his own fairy tale.

Yet, like children, many are enchanted.  He can promise anything but really doesn’t have to deliver anything other than a rousing call to arms to his growing number of believers.

Will he self-destruct like his namesake when the name “Trumpelstiltskin” is proclaimed to the world? 

Peeking ahead, I’m guessing his pique will peak at unprecedented heights. 

The Ministry of Trump

It’s not too early for President-elect Trump to start thinking about his cabinet.

With Vice President Carson safely tucked into obscurity, Pres. Trump picks his dream team:

Secretary of Hate: Ted Cruz

Secretary of Indefensible: Marco Rubio

Secretary of Bluster: Chris Christie

Secretary of Indifference: Jeb Bush

Secretary of Hair: Rand Paul

Secretary of Boredom: Mike Huckabee
Secretary of Whats-His-Name:John Kasich

And Secretary of Blunders: Carly Fiorina

The all-Republican Senate confirms everyone unanimously. No Democrat in his right mind would participate in a government like that.

Proving once again you get what you don’t vote for. 

The Front-Runner

Here’s a thought: Is it possible Donald Trump polls so high among republican primary voters because the rest of the field is so, shall we say, tepid?

That’s a fairly mild word to describe Trump’s competition. A more partisan observer might use stronger language in assessing the feckless field. I’d like to disassociate myself from that scrum.

Trump is a phenomenon. The media is captivated by him. Cable comics are having a field day with his candidacy. He is as entertaining as he is ridiculous. Yet he is prevailing in the polls.

He is the star of his own political reality show and everyone else is his supporting cast.

At this time of year, baseball honors its best with “Most Valuable Player” awards. Trump gets my vote for “Kooky of The Year.”

No competition. 

Trying

I’m trying; really, I’m trying to get the hang of modern technology. I like my smart phone but some things I just can’t figure out.

For instance, we recently received photos of our Israeli great-granddaughters lighting Hanukkah candles. Very cute. I wanted to save them on my smart phone but I can’t figure out how to do it.

Later that same day one of my other Israeli granddaughters (we have six) sent us via WhatsApp a series of pictures of her kids also lighting Hanukkah candles. As a bonus, we also saw pictures of our youngest great-granddaughter and her mother.

These photos were saved automatically on the phone. In fact, through some mysterious alchemy this batch was saved twice.

We were so excited to get the pictures we called Israel to thank them. While talking, we mentioned the remodeling we did to our house (new roof and siding and a portico over the front door).

My wife had me go outside and take pictures of the new look and, with some long-distance prompting from my granddaughter, I WhatsApp’d them to her. She commented on our new look while we were still on the phone.

Technology can be wonderful and frustrating at the same time.

But I’m still trying. 

The Search for Incandescent Light In An LED World

I don’t like the new bulbs. You know, the LED types that start slowly and supposedly last forever. I’m not going to last forever so I don't need a bulb that lasts that long.

Whatever: here’s the story;

A workman replacing the roof over my office dropped something that sounded like an explosion and scared the wits out of me. What’s more, it blew out the two high-hat bulbs that light my office. They were good old incandescent bulbs that glowed immediately with 120 watts of nice clear light as soon as I turned them on.

So I set out to replace them. Good luck with that. Home Depot had none. Amazon had none. My favorite hardware store laughed at me when I asked if they had any similar bulbs. They blamed politicians who insisted we must have Eco-friendly light bulbs.

As a last resort, I tried ShopRite. All they had were LEDs offering 90watts. The price was right so I bought three. They came in hermetically-sealed plastic cases. I cut one open and the bulb popped out onto my kitchen counter and shattered. I returned all three today.

I think I’m as Eco-friendly as the next guy but is it too much to ask for a simple light bulb that goes on when you flip the switch and lasts a reasonable, not eternal, amount of time?

Call me retro but I’m still looking for my incandescent bulbs.

Becoming Murray Kimler

Murray Kimler owned the beauty parlor next to my father's tailor shop in the Bronx. He was a very nice man and very accommodating.

In the summer of 1948 our two families rented houses in Long Beach, Long Island. I was too young to drive then and once in a while Murray gave me a lift to the beach. It was nice of him but torture for me because Murray drove in the right lane of the Grand Central Parkway at exactly 35 miles an hour. That was the the speed limit, of course, and, just as now no one drove at the speed limit, except Murray.

Back then my father cruised that highway at about 50 miles an hour along with the other traffic. So sitting alongside Murray driving to Long Beach was gut-wrenching. I still remember those drives when today 65 is the new 35. (Today's drivers would thank heaven if they could go 35 mph on the Grand Central.)

I'm telling you this because recently my wife and I were driving locally when she asked me if I was doing a “Murray.” She was right. I was dawdling along in the right lane as traffic zipped by.

Jolted to the present, I started driving normally while giving a mental shout out to the late, if not very late, Murray Kimler.  

Trump This!

It's not too early to start thinking of the 2020 election.

As President Trump looks over the west portico of Trump House, as he has renamed the White House, he ponders a run for a second term.

The thing is, he spent one fortune winning in 2016; can he afford another fortune to finance a campaign to remain in office? Did he convince the Republicans they should finally back him, or do they still think Jeb Bush is electable?

It's a sure bet the Democrats have given up on Hillary so there's no strong contender against him.

On the other hand, Vice President Carson has done an excellent job keeping out of the spotlight the last four years. But he still thinks he deserves a shot at the top job. He's already sent out feelers to his supporters pledging to replace the gold “Trump House” billboard with a silver caduceus, symbolic of his healing powers.

Will the brain surgeon supplant the brainless? America awaits.

Where the hell is it?

I spent about 30 minutes this afternoon looking for a receipt I had in  my hand when I walked into the kitchen. But suddenly it wasn't there.

That's ridiculous, I thought, It has to be here. Where did it go? What's the big deal, you ask.

Here's the back story: the receipt was from our supermarket and it should have shown we had reached the purchase threshold that entitled us to a free turkey for Thanksgiving. But when we checked out the total was further from the threshold than when we started.

Not possible. So we went to customer service and the attendant looked up our account. She said we had been credited with a return of $160 TODAY in a branch store more than 90 miles south.

This called for a chat with the manager. He was very nice and explained that all to often people who don't have a store card use a phone number to verify their account. Unfortunately, today someone chose to use ours. The manager also said this was not uncommon. He gave us credit for the turkey and, at his suggestion, we changed the phone number associated with our account.

As a courtesy, I called the store that refunded someone $160 and told him they used a false phone number. The manager gave me what I interpreted as a verbal shrug, saying, "it happens."

So that explains my anxiety about the receipt, which we finally found. And the free turkey is heading for a food bank.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone, except the phone number thief.