Thursday, December 31, 2020
Hike to the falls
It is the best night, the worst night, the last night, the first night of the New Year.
It's the dog's favorite dark.
For shortly past 11 tonight, we'll load the red sled with cheese and cold apple wine, a few brittle bits of white birch, tuck a harmonica in my parka and begin the short hike to the waterfall.
It is New Year's Eve again, that final, magic, white night of the year.
You come too. Light the lantern.
Christmas is over.
For some of us, Christmas has been over for a long time. It's too often guilt and greed and gluttony. Fat little families and the Yule drool of over-stuffed, bad-tempered consumer children. And in this Covid winter of masks and lonely, you might even miss that.
Tonight is another matter entirely.
New Year's Eve is a clean, cold, secular holiday which happily resists drunks and the animators of TV cartoon specials.
It's a fine time to dodge imitation icicle lights, car horns on Yonge St. or an afternoon snooze of imported football.
It isn't sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, or a teary, beery pub-crawl where strangers once got sick on your shoes.
Put on your mittens. Follow me. Leave all that behind ... the yahoos, the yelling, this cursed and awful year.
Crossing the road on the high hill, the snow scrunches underfoot like cornstarch. Our breath floats away in icy fog, like 2020. Don't be sad. It's the way things ought to be.
The dog pads along in happy wonder, his paws placed carefully in our footprints.
We leave the road now, down the ravine with stars overhead and the gurgle of the half-frozen brook, in night cloaks of ice.
It's very quiet.
And cold.
And not lonely, but very alone.
We are alone in this world. We come that way. We go alone as well. New Year's Eve is a perfect time to rejoice in yourself, your own magical renewal in the baffling universe.
Catch a snowflake on your tongue.
Do you know the odds of eating that single crystal in all the world? The stars shine and we are here for--the 25th? 26th?---time at the frozen waterfall.
The dog picks snow clumps from his paws. I light the fire while you make a snow angel. And by flickering lantern light, the icy falls shimmer. High above, in the tops of trees, an animal cry floats by on the night wind. Wolf? Polar owl?
We sit on the buffalo sled robe, a sharp pang of cold apple wine in our throats, looking deep, deep into the fire.
Where are Doug Ford or Dr. Faucci tonight? Who cares?
We sit in this snowdrift like wolves, singing in our souls and baying at the sky. We will be in love, and out of love, and somewhere in between, suspended in the hypnotic hiss of fire.
Harmonica notes float away like snow swirls, rising in icy spirals upwards to the breeze.
The fire crackles, and from over the hill the ice-bound lake crackles back.
Snowdrifts shift ... the hiss ... a whisper ... a lover turning in bed ... the noise of rabbit whiskers when a nose crinkles ... snow crystals tumble into drifts ... drifts lift away as days ... fall into one another ... the years, the sifting, shifting snow.
Relish a crisp northern New Year's Eve in a Zen forest. Trees fall in silence because there's no human to hear them.
We're here! We see it!
You remember a half-forgotten song. The dog digs a hole, but not enough for a snow cave. The sharp apple wine cuts the throat like an icicle.
And sometime, between the lighting of the logs and the last embers, it is 2021. And it begins to snow.
Hey friend. I really like ya.
Thanks for being. Thanks.
The bottle is empty.
Our toes and noses threaten to disappear.
There is nothing left to connect us to 2020. Without a cheer or whimper, we put out the fire and let it slip away.
The waterfall rumbles, ice spiders weave invisible webs overhead and we walk, arm in arm, back to the road. The dog soils a snowdrift in celebration.
Hey, get on the sled!
With a push you are off, hurtling into downhill darkness. The dog disappears in chase.
The slide sound of sled falls away, far below me. The sky shines, alive with stars ... and four lines come again from the depths of memory...
The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide.
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high.
Yes.
Happy New Year.
See ya...
Wednesday, December 30, 2020
Bubbles
Bubbles has been terrified some family emergency might force us both on a plane.
He has recurring nightmares about coughs, Covid and the Boeing 737 Max. As do we all.
In a better, less locked-down world, I would seek psychological counseling for Bubbles and his night terrors.
But for the foreseeable future, I am my goldfish's emotional support animal. Banned. Locked down. Home free.
Thank you, Alaska Airlines.
Do you dance better than a robot?
The brilliant minds at Boston Dynamics offer this cruel reminder their robots will dance their clanky butts off New Year's Eve... while you're locked down, eating frozen grocery pizza.
Crime, hunger, plague and poverty? Go fish.
Our best and brightest teach robots to do the twist and mashed potato. A magical era to be sure.
"vaxxies"
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
When it was hip to be square I was square
Monday, December 28, 2020
Covid cozy
Barb and Susan have been exchanging gag Christmas boxes for decades.
This year, Barb sent Susan a mechanical Santa Claus that shakes an annoying little bell. The bell has been replaced by a syringe. Santa now shakes a hypodermic needle.
Susan sent Barb what you see above: a hand-crocheted Corona Virus cell.
Great minds think alike.
Frozen
Sunday, December 27, 2020
Nate Craig and Pepe Le Pew
=======
snowflakes
"If I tell people that I have cartoons in the New Yorker magazine . . . suddenly they start pouring me a glass of Bordeaux and they’re my best friend."
--Paul Karasik, New Yorker cartoonist
Saturday, December 26, 2020
WORD OF THE DAY: Spatchcock
Until two weeks ago, I'd never heard about The Christmas Pickle.
But a day ago, I get the above pic from a pal who claims she is "spatchcocking" a turkey for Christmas. It's her new favorite word.
WTF?
"Spatchcocking a bird is the
process of removing the backbone and flattening it onto a baking tray
(or butterflying it). It may seem a bit intimidating but it's really
easy to do, saves a lot of cook time and helps everything cook evenly.
With this method, you can cook a 10-12 lb turkey in about 70-90 minutes!"
Why is it called spatchcocking?
"The term “spatchcock” is rumored to be a 17th century shorthand for “dispatching the cock”, meaning to open a chicken carcass in order to cook it. This technique involves splitting the chicken by removing the backbone so you can flatten it, resulting in crispier skin and even, quicker cooking."
Stand back, or I'll spatchcock you.
Peter Pan revisited
"Peter Pan is a musical based on J. M. Barrie's 1904 play Peter Pan and his 1911 novelization of it, Peter and Wendy. The music is mostly by Moose Charlap, with additional music by Jule Styne, and most of the lyrics were written by Carolyn Leigh, with additional lyrics by Betty Comden and Adolph Green.
"The original 1954 Broadway production, starring Mary Martin as Peter and Cyril Ritchard as Captain Hook, earned Tony Awards for both stars. It was followed by NBC telecasts of it in 1955, 1956, and 1960 with the same stars, plus rebroadcasts of the 1960 telecast thru the 1980s.Friday, December 25, 2020
Never grow up
"Some say as we grow up, we become different people at different ages... "
============
In 1955, I was just a kid.
That year mom got me Tom Corbett Space Patrol pajamas.
But I still remember the night I first learned of Neverland.
That's the simplest explanation of why, all these years later, I still return there in the week between Christmas and New Years.
There is a link to go there just below, and if you choose not to, I understand. Only kids can get to Neverland. But if there is still a kid within you... or you know a kid ... or you remember the first sheepdog you ever saw was probably a human in a dog suit named Nana ...well, I'm just sayin'....
Merry Christmas.
LINK: Peter Pan 1960 telecast (Mary Martin Cyril Ritchard)
P.S. If you can see wires, I'm so sorry. You've grown up.
Morning walk
The Christmas Gloves
The guy had to find his girlfriend a perfect Christmas gift.
They'd only dated a few months. He wanted romantic, but nothing cold, creepy or too personal.
He decides on a pair of gloves. Ladylike. Old-fashioned.
He
enlists his girlfriend's younger sister to select them at Holt Renfrew.
The sister is so delighted by the store, she buys a pair of lace
panties for herself.
But the salesclerk mixes up the boxes. That's why the guy's girlfriend opens a
box of panties on Christmas morning and reads the following hand-written
note...
"I chose these because
I notice you never wear any when we go out. If it had not been for your
sister, I would have chosen longer ones with buttons. But she wears
short ones that are easier to remove.
"These
are a delicate shade, but the saleslady showed me a pair she'd been
wearing for three weeks and they were barely soiled. I had her try yours
on for me and she looked really smart.
"I
wish I was there to help put them on you the first time, as no doubt
other hands will come in contact with them before I see you again.
"When
you take them off, remember to blow on them before putting them away.
They will naturally be a little damp from wearing. Just think how many
times I will kiss them during the coming year. Will you wear them for me
New Years Eve?
"P.S... The saleslady says the latest style is to wear them folded down, with a little fur showing."
She ghosted him on Boxing Day.
======
Thanks Annie!
Thursday, December 24, 2020
Still waiting for Trump pardons
Good morning Hee Haw....
It's Donkey Day across much of Europe.
This beloved holiday summons happy, smart or wise asses from everywhere to pose in nativity pageants.
By tradition, if you pass a stranger today, bray "Hee Haw" at him. He will "Hee Haw" back. Or throw a punch.
Pickles go to church
Wednesday, December 23, 2020
Boo to blue pickles
Burn the evidence
Artful Dodger
"Don't worry honey, it's not going on the internet..."
From web genius zefrank1:
Pets talk about Christmas....
Tuesday, December 22, 2020
Thanks of a grateful nation
Eight cent electricity for 28 days!
But only after the holiday week, when the lights come down, the tree gets tossed and 24/7 streaming stops.
CHRISTMAS SHOPPER: Barefoot shoes
HOLLYWOOD HOMICIDE
Monday, December 21, 2020
Sweet winter solstice
It's December 21.
And again comes that sweet sound that echoes thru endless Canadian winters. Hear it here...
Oh Come All Ye Blobs
CHRISTMAS SHOPPER: Stoner's bathroom kit
Christmas Shopper: Hamster Shredder
Sunday, December 20, 2020
James Taylor – Show window has expired
Sorry, two-day show window has ended....
Back in 1970, when "Apple"was the Beatles' record label and not an iEverything megacorp, they signed this kid named James Taylor.
Remember the lime-green label?
The BBC had J.T. in with his guitar to record a studio concert. Fifty years ago, kids.
That concert--restored, clear as a bell and bittersweet--is running right now on YouTube.
But only for 48 hours--til mid-afternoon Tuesday. (3pmET)
Boomers, geezers and folk creakers will adore this: the time machine they've been looking for.
Such innocence. The audience smokes! Are there better times ahead? Then? Now?
Click above or ...
00:00 With a Little Help From My Friends (Lennon/McCartney) 03:26 Fire and Rain 07:28 Rainy Day Man 10:26 Steamroller 14:52 Greensleeves (Traditional) 16:55 Highway Song 21:16 Tube Rose Snuff (Arthur Smith) 23:28 Carolina in My Mind 27:45 Long Ago and Far Away 30:45 Riding On a Railroad 33:30 You Can Close Your Eyes
Earlier today, Taylor--now 72--put up his memories of this concert and those times.
"Long ago a young man sits, and plays his waiting game
But things are not the same it seems as in such tender dreams.
Slowly passing sailing ships and Sunday afternoon.
Like people on the moon I see are things not meant to be.
Where do those golden rainbows end? Why is this song so sad?"
z