Is there someone here who can help out an old guy with precious little understanding of fashion? I am shaking my head over the folks who are ooohing and aaaahing over Melania Trump's hat (I see no mention of her other clothing) when greeting the Macrons. It seem to me that not only is she worlds away from Pat Nixon's plain cloth coat, but that she can regularly be expected to don some sort of preposterous clothing--often resembling a tent (albeit surely a very expensive tent). Totally inappropriate, and totally nouveau riche. Or am I off base?
I don't follow fashion, but it appeared that the hat was serving quite well as an anti-Cheetolini maneuver. He couldn't get past the brim to kiss her. Just the way she likes it I'll bet since she'd already tried hard NOT to hold his hand.
Well, yes, illegal, for little people I suppose. And I recall Ms Daniels' attorney saying something like that about Mr. Cohen the other day. Might be something to it!
--Alan
P.S.: Attorneys for President Trump told the federal judge overseeing the investigation of his personal attorney, Michael Cohen, that Trump would, as necessary, personally review documents to ensure that privileged information is not revealed accidentally to the FBI or prosecutors, ABC News reports. [Click] How generous of him! And with all his extensive legal training and experience he will be so much better at identifying privileged information than anyone else! The mere fact that he would inevitably encounter privileged information he has no right to is certainly a trivial detail, non?
Okay, hoopy froods, here's Part 1 of our continuing story, currently laboring under the working title "Fantasy Land." Feel free to throw squashy fruit and vegetables. --- It started at a comfortable family restaurant, during one of those family gatherings at which I felt anything but comfortable. My mother was there, Dad having conveniently remembered an out-of-town business appointment. My aunts and uncles were there. And my cousins were there, dozens of cousins! Every one of them, to a person, whether older than myself or younger, had an obscenely well-paid job and a stunningly attractive spouse. And each one had to search me out for a cousinly chat. The tales of promotions and new cars and new condos in newly snazzy districts quickly became a meaningless blur, until I wasn’t sure if it was Brian or Bobby or maybe Bridget who was the VP at Deutsche Bank, with two Porsches and an Aston Martin, a villa in the Tuscan hills (or was it on an Aegean island?) and an Australian starlet bride. And they all seemed to have baby pictures! I like babies and children well enough, in small doses; and I truly did not grudge any of my cousins their flourishing progeny. But why did there have to be so many? And, Good Lord, why were the kids so ugly? My parents’ generation were good looking. Even in advancing middle age, the men were distinguished if no longer rakishly handsome. The women, too, were quite an attractive bunch. Aunty Mae, in particular, was as pretty as a china doll of a gramma. In fact, she reminded me strongly of Agatha Christie’s little old lady detective, Miss Marple, and not just in looks. My generation, too, had been blessed by the gods of beauty, and their spouses were trophies, though I suspected a couple of the women and at least one of the men owed more to the art of plastic surgery than to Mother Nature. But the babies and small children whose pictures proud parents thrust under my nose were universally gargoyles. I couldn’t understand it. My friends with children had adorable babies. So it wasn’t that until the age of twenty-one all children were hideous. It was only my cousins’ children that were hideous. And of course I had to coo and say how gorgeous they were. They all tried to talk to me about my work, I have to give them that. But since not one of them knew poetry from poop, the interest wasn’t terribly deep, even in the handful of cases where it was sincere. As always on such occasions, I found myself repeating mechanically that Ploughshares really was quite a well known and respected periodical. And, no, it was not an agricultural magazine. My favorite cousin, Jamie, had spent as much time with me as he could. He was the only other unattached member of the clan, so we would have been drawn together by that fact alone. But we’d always been fond of each other, his cheerful, outgoing personality complementing well my quiet one. We talked animatedly about University of Connecticut basketball, I arguing for the superiority of the women’s team and he of the men’s in long-standing, friendly rivalry till his brother-in-law dragged him off to join a discussion of stock derivatives or some such dull mystery, and I was left alone.
Though sorry to see Jamie go, overall I was glad enough to be left to myself. I picked at the excellent chicken dish whose name escaped my non culinarily inclined mind, and took a long drink of lemonade. Still holding the glass absently, I looked around. If I could make it to the back corridor where the restrooms were situated, I’d be home free. An inconspicuous side door led out from the corridor to the alley between this building and the next. I knew from previous experience that the alley was clean and relatively well-lighted. A short sprint, and I’d be strolling along the street, just another unremarkable pedestrian; or, perhaps, not so unremarkable. We’d had a sudden cold snap. It might be more accurate to say that Indian summer ended rather abruptly. So, though this time last week I would have been quite comfortable on the street in slacks and a blazer, today I’d needed a winter coat and scarf...when we arrived at 4:00. Now, just after 6:00, the temperature was no doubt even less comfortable. All the coats, including mine, were in the restaurant’s coat check room. Since the restaurant catered mainly to large family parties, it still had this anachronism, though not a full-time coat check attendant. The room would be unattended, but I couldn’t reach it unobserved. And, if observed, I’d be pounced upon by some aunt or cousin and loudly denounced for trying to leave while the evening was still young. Of course, I had my purse. It was natural enough to take that to the Ladies’ with me. But without my coat, scarf and gloves, I’d freeze before finding one of the town’s few cabs. The old sayings are true. In particular, He who hesitates is lost. While I dithered, my mother remembered me and turned to ask, in her kindly bullying way, if I didn’t want to come sit with her, Uncle Sean and Aunt Fran. It was inevitable, of course. I always ended up with Mamma, Uncle Sean and Aunt Fran. I sighed and started to get to my feet. But at that moment, a magnificent chestnut centaur appeared in the aisle between my table and Mamma’s. I mean literally appeared, out of nowhere. He made me a courtly bow and said in his deep, musical voice, “Miss Susannah, your presence is required.” “Oh, hello, Glenstorm,” I said weakly, sinking back in my chair. My friend’s materialization out of thin air when I wasn’t expecting him always startled me,, no matter how often I saw it. And I wasn’t the only one. Shrieks, curses, invocations of the saints and the sound of dropped cutlery and broken glasses resounded through the dining room. Mama sighed resignedly. “Really, Suzy,” she complained. “I do wish you would keep your disreputable friends under control.” I hid a smile. Sometimes Mama showed remarkable sanfois. Tossing off my remaining lemonade and setting down the glass, I rose to my feet again. For decency’s sake I had to at least feign alarm. “Required?” “At once,” the centaur declaimed. He really was a ham. But I was awfully glad to see him. Besides, his grandiloquent manner together with his appearance awed most people in the Real World, as well as a good few in Fairyland. So I wasn’t about to argue. Without another word, he swept me up in his powerful arms and we left. Please don’t misunderstand. When I say ‘we left,’ I don’t mean we passed through any of the restaurant’s doors. I mean we vanished from that place as suddenly has my friend had appeared.
I rather liked the bit about Bridget's Australian starlet bride. ;-)
I thought the writing was very good. No personal experience with those sorts of large family parties. Seems maybe a bit overblown to me, but someone else might feel differently. And then that centaur pops into existence. No set-up. Maybe earlier something like, "I wished someone or something would rescue me. Or maybe O cpi;d rescue myself." and then continue with the bit about the ladies room.
A while back our old food processor croaked; we replaced it with a Hamilton Beach "Stack and Snap " one, albeit not from Amazon. [Click] Highly recommended--easy as pie to assemble and disassemble--no strain at all on the wrists. Highly recommended if one is in the market.
In The Ohio Governors’ Race, The Future Of Medicaid Hangs In The Balance[Click] Hoping for the best, Susan. Averages mean nothing in individual cases, but the following stories are hopeful.
ReplyDeleteArizona Special Election Is Another Wake Up Call for GOP[Click]
GOP Has Fared Worse In Every Special Election[Click]
Trump’s Election Nightmare[Click] I can accept that.
On the downside, but still speculative:
How Trump Wins by Bashing the News Media[Click]
—Alan
Is there someone here who can help out an old guy with precious little understanding of fashion? I am shaking my head over the folks who are ooohing and aaaahing over Melania Trump's hat (I see no mention of her other clothing) when greeting the Macrons. It seem to me that not only is she worlds away from Pat Nixon's plain cloth coat, but that she can regularly be expected to don some sort of preposterous clothing--often resembling a tent (albeit surely a very expensive tent). Totally inappropriate, and totally nouveau riche. Or am I off base?
ReplyDeleteAlan
I don't follow fashion, but it appeared that the hat was serving quite well as an anti-Cheetolini maneuver. He couldn't get past the brim to kiss her. Just the way she likes it I'll bet since she'd already tried hard NOT to hold his hand.
DeleteAh! Very good idea.
DeleteAlan
Hadn't seen the hat, so I googled it. In my view it's an incredibly boring hat. But, hey, if it serves the purpose Susan mentioned, I'll cheer her on.
DeleteCatreona, did you see this?!!??!!! 😯
ReplyDeleteScientists Unveil Precise Map Of More Than A Billion Stars
https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2018/04/25/605622779/you-are-here-scientists-unveil-precise-map-of-more-than-a-billion-stars
I didn't! Thank you!
DeleteHere’s another astronomy report:
ReplyDeleteThe largest thing in the universe? Cosmic collision 12bn years ago created mega-galaxy[Click] Note that ALMA is a radio frequency interferometer.
—Alan
CNN: Suspected Spies Casing Russian Defectors Were Among Diplomats Expelled[Click]
ReplyDeleteCohen Says He’ll Plead Fifth In Stormy Daniels Suit Due To Criminal Probe[Click] Hmmmm…..wouldn’t that invalidate the non-disclosure agreement? And probably the court should award costs and attorney’s fees to the plaintiff.
The Don[Click]
NY Appeals Court Asked To Reinstate Trump Business Conflicts Lawsuit[Click]
Trump Still Hitting Up Foreign Politicians for Campaign Cash[Click]
—Alan
Er, Isn't that just a teensy bit illegal?
DeleteIt strikes me that Michael Cohen isn't a very astute lawyer, or maybe he just isn't a very clever weasel.
DeleteWell, yes, illegal, for little people I suppose. And I recall Ms Daniels' attorney saying something like that about Mr. Cohen the other day. Might be something to it!
Delete--Alan
P.S.: Attorneys for President Trump told the federal judge overseeing the investigation of his personal attorney, Michael Cohen, that Trump would, as necessary, personally review documents to ensure that privileged information is not revealed accidentally to the FBI or prosecutors, ABC News reports. [Click] How generous of him! And with all his extensive legal training and experience he will be so much better at identifying privileged information than anyone else! The mere fact that he would inevitably encounter privileged information he has no right to is certainly a trivial detail, non?
Oh, but he would never take advantage!
DeleteOkay, hoopy froods, here's Part 1 of our continuing story, currently laboring under the working title "Fantasy Land." Feel free to throw squashy fruit and vegetables.
ReplyDelete---
It started at a comfortable family restaurant, during one of those family gatherings at which I felt anything but comfortable. My mother was there, Dad having conveniently remembered an out-of-town business appointment. My aunts and uncles were there. And my cousins were there, dozens of cousins!
Every one of them, to a person, whether older than myself or younger, had an obscenely well-paid job and a stunningly attractive spouse. And each one had to search me out for a cousinly chat. The tales of promotions and new cars and new condos in newly snazzy districts quickly became a meaningless blur, until I wasn’t sure if it was Brian or Bobby or maybe Bridget who was the VP at Deutsche Bank, with two Porsches and an Aston Martin, a villa in the Tuscan hills (or was it on an Aegean island?) and an Australian starlet bride.
And they all seemed to have baby pictures! I like babies and children well enough, in small doses; and I truly did not grudge any of my cousins their flourishing progeny. But why did there have to be so many? And, Good Lord, why were the kids so ugly?
My parents’ generation were good looking. Even in advancing middle age, the men were distinguished if no longer rakishly handsome. The women, too, were quite an attractive bunch. Aunty Mae, in particular, was as pretty as a china doll of a gramma. In fact, she reminded me strongly of Agatha Christie’s little old lady detective, Miss Marple, and not just in looks. My generation, too, had been blessed by the gods of beauty, and their spouses were trophies, though I suspected a couple of the women and at least one of the men owed more to the art of plastic surgery than to Mother Nature. But the babies and small children whose pictures proud parents thrust under my nose were universally gargoyles. I couldn’t understand it. My friends with children had adorable babies. So it wasn’t that until the age of twenty-one all children were hideous. It was only my cousins’ children that were hideous. And of course I had to coo and say how gorgeous they were.
They all tried to talk to me about my work, I have to give them that. But since not one of them knew poetry from poop, the interest wasn’t terribly deep, even in the handful of cases where it was sincere. As always on such occasions, I found myself repeating mechanically that Ploughshares really was quite a well known and respected periodical. And, no, it was not an agricultural magazine.
My favorite cousin, Jamie, had spent as much time with me as he could. He was the only other unattached member of the clan, so we would have been drawn together by that fact alone. But we’d always been fond of each other, his cheerful, outgoing personality complementing well my quiet one. We talked animatedly about University of Connecticut basketball, I arguing for the superiority of the women’s team and he of the men’s in long-standing, friendly rivalry till his brother-in-law dragged him off to join a discussion of stock derivatives or some such dull mystery, and I was left alone.
[Continued in the comments]
Though sorry to see Jamie go, overall I was glad enough to be left to myself. I picked at the excellent chicken dish whose name escaped my non culinarily inclined mind, and took a long drink of lemonade. Still holding the glass absently, I looked around. If I could make it to the back corridor where the restrooms were situated, I’d be home free. An inconspicuous side door led out from the corridor to the alley between this building and the next. I knew from previous experience that the alley was clean and relatively well-lighted. A short sprint, and I’d be strolling along the street, just another unremarkable pedestrian; or, perhaps, not so unremarkable. We’d had a sudden cold snap. It might be more accurate to say that Indian summer ended rather abruptly. So, though this time last week I would have been quite comfortable on the street in slacks and a blazer, today I’d needed a winter coat and scarf...when we arrived at 4:00. Now, just after 6:00, the temperature was no doubt even less comfortable. All the coats, including mine, were in the restaurant’s coat check room. Since the restaurant catered mainly to large family parties, it still had this anachronism, though not a full-time coat check attendant. The room would be unattended, but I couldn’t reach it unobserved. And, if observed, I’d be pounced upon by some aunt or cousin and loudly denounced for trying to leave while the evening was still young.
DeleteOf course, I had my purse. It was natural enough to take that to the Ladies’ with me. But without my coat, scarf and gloves, I’d freeze before finding one of the town’s few cabs.
The old sayings are true. In particular, He who hesitates is lost. While I dithered, my mother remembered me and turned to ask, in her kindly bullying way, if I didn’t want to come sit with her, Uncle Sean and Aunt Fran. It was inevitable, of course. I always ended up with Mamma, Uncle Sean and Aunt Fran. I sighed and started to get to my feet.
But at that moment, a magnificent chestnut centaur appeared in the aisle between my table and Mamma’s. I mean literally appeared, out of nowhere. He made me a courtly bow and said in his deep, musical voice, “Miss Susannah, your presence is required.”
“Oh, hello, Glenstorm,” I said weakly, sinking back in my chair. My friend’s materialization out of thin air when I wasn’t expecting him always startled me,, no matter how often I saw it. And I wasn’t the only one. Shrieks, curses, invocations of the saints and the sound of dropped cutlery and broken glasses resounded through the dining room.
Mama sighed resignedly. “Really, Suzy,” she complained. “I do wish you would keep your disreputable friends under control.”
I hid a smile. Sometimes Mama showed remarkable sanfois. Tossing off my remaining lemonade and setting down the glass, I rose to my feet again. For decency’s sake I had to at least feign alarm. “Required?”
“At once,” the centaur declaimed. He really was a ham. But I was awfully glad to see him. Besides, his grandiloquent manner together with his appearance awed most people in the Real World, as well as a good few in Fairyland. So I wasn’t about to argue.
Without another word, he swept me up in his powerful arms and we left.
Please don’t misunderstand. When I say ‘we left,’ I don’t mean we passed through any of the restaurant’s doors. I mean we vanished from that place as suddenly has my friend had appeared.
I rather liked the bit about Bridget's Australian starlet bride. ;-)
DeleteI thought the writing was very good. No personal experience with those sorts of large family parties. Seems maybe a bit overblown to me, but someone else might feel differently. And then that centaur pops into existence. No set-up. Maybe earlier something like, "I wished someone or something would rescue me. Or maybe O cpi;d rescue myself." and then continue with the bit about the ladies room.
An incredibly preserved set of tracks tell the story of an ancient hunt.[Click] Incredible track bed found at White Sands.
ReplyDelete—Alan
Amazing, no matter how you look at it!
DeleteA while back our old food processor croaked; we replaced it with a Hamilton Beach "Stack and Snap " one, albeit not from Amazon. [Click] Highly recommended--easy as pie to assemble and disassemble--no strain at all on the wrists. Highly recommended if one is in the market.
ReplyDelete--Alan