Hereunder

New Year's Dissolutions

Gentle visitors, a colleague of mine today announced that he had lost four pounds on his new diet in just a week -- one of his resolutions for the New Year.  Your humble Contributor was, of course, quick to congratulate him, though he was also forced to note, after a quick calculation, that his colleague would, if he maintained the current rate of weight loss, cease to exist in a year's time.  Unfortunately, this colleague was displeased to hear this cautionary observation, since it was taken as deflating in what was a concerted period of deflation.  A paradox.

In any case, your humble Contributor has, for the New Year, taken to living more resolutely a dissolute life.  Consider that, rather than taking the stairs, he patiently awaits the lumbering lift.  Or, that, while others are sprinkling flax seeds on otherwise flavorful meals, he is wisely hunting up fatback.  Or, that, instead of undertaking a program of vigorous exercise, he prudently leans back in the lounger.  This is virtue in action -- or, rather, in inaction -- but, the sense of it must be clear.

Who knows, but in a year's time, our next president may be sending out the Obesity Police to serve a citation on our then plump person.  But, that would occur in another New Year, with its own resolutions.  In this year, our program is to supply what is lacking in our own gravitas.   It does no-one any good in any way to be seen as a light-weight; whereas, it does one wonders to seen as having heft and sway in important quarters.  And, if those quarters be the hind, so be it. 

Further, few of us would celebrate a loss as we would a gain, any more than we would greet lossful employ for gainful.  Nor would we prefer the petty to the grand -- in larceny, or any other matter.  No.  To be so inclined would be to appear slight, scrawny, spare, and even meager. 

Let it therefore, BE RESOLVED, gentle visitors, that we will attend to our attenuated frames and become, once again, men and women of substance.

Nose Hair No More

Gentle visitors, we cannot express in too great a depth or breadth our delight with and gratitude for the new Personal Electric Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer lately received from the poor relations dwelling in the Buckeye State. 

Thankfully, the day has long past when it was said that "Nose Hair Makes The Man".   Now, the very notion strikes the nostril as noxious, if not noisome.   Today, we understand that this societal error was based upon a kind of follicle idolatry, whereby the presence of such hair in the nose or ears signaled a wizened wisdom, born of great age and experience and (unfortunately) chronic inattention to personal grooming.

We are put in mind of that seemingly kindly, old physician -- not a otorhinolaryngologist, mind you, but a man of general practice -- with bushing brows, nose, and ears, as if to offset his thinning pate ; shuffling about; humming atonally perhaps; peering into our own ears, nose, and throat; smelling slightly of some sort of antiseptic; glibly pronouncing us in good health, when we were certain to be infected with dengue fever, which would, sadly, require an extended absence from school. 

No, we say with relief, that day is gone.  And, in this present day, your humble Contributor gazes with awe and appreciation upon his Personal Electric Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer.  How it shines in chromium/titanium strength and sleekness.  One touch of the button and it stirs and whirs to life, seeking out and clipping the overgrown thatch that would block our vital senses and mar our countenance.  Snap on the extender to reach winding canals of the ear.  Goodness, you exclaim, the trimmer has dropped into water!  No matter: it is amphibious -- at home, wet or dry.

Oh, yes, we have heard from the whining nasal naysayers, who maintain that cilia serve as a critical filter of environmental micro-particulates, an assessor of aromas, a warmer and humidifier of cold air, and a prime mover of mucous to the sinus ostia, wherever and whatever that may be.  How, they cry, can we cut down these tender tendrils, the very sentries of our anatomical ecology?  But, we answer, shall we sacrifice our appearance to such olifactoral worrier-oligarchs?  We think not.

Regard, again, the gleaming Personal Electric Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer, lightweight and easy in the hand.   One might picture the Important Executive moving through his essential appliances, in a deliberate order, early a morn: grasping first his Electric Razor and smoothing his rough beard; then, his Personal Electric Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer; and, next, his Portable Digital Dictation Device, speaking the first words that will govern human affairs for years to come, all with a flawless, facial presentation.

Or, would you rather the ancient physician, with his tuneless whistle and his boudless bristles. 

Consider this with great care and good grooming.

New Years Resolutions

Last night I was reminded by my teenage ex-Latin scholar that the etymology of the word "procrastinate" is cras, which he claims means tomorrow in the mother tongue.  I do not know if that is true. I studied Spanish and their tomorrow was manana.

Anyways the point of all this is that I am now posting my New Years resolutions. I realize the New Year is already 1/24 completed and some may wonder "what is the point?"

A lot of weaker people do not make New Years resolutions. Those whose lives have achieved total perfection rarely make New Years Resolutions either. That's OK. I tend to draft resolutions in abundance. I will grace this website with a few.

Resolution Number 1- No more beer. This was not really a resolution, but rather an unconscious physical rebellion that started last autumn. It seems the older I get the less beer it takes to make me feel lousier than ever. So I just stopped buying it. Now I drink way too much water. Goodness do I feel lousy.

Work out every day- This one is in the New Year's Resolution Hall of Fame. This year I broke it on the second or third of January. In fact today I probably won't work out because of the weather. We have a gym here, but whenever I go down there it seems like all of the TVs are tuned to the Ellen Degeneres Show.

Never watch the Ellen Degeneres show- lest I be accused of being phobic, the real problem I have with Ellen is that she looks like my sister, who lives in California also. Its too weird.

Stop swearing, especially around the kids- I made it to about 10 am on January 1 with this one. But we can still keep trying.

Call mom more often-- Since dad passed away, she needs to hear from her favorite son more often. Since I know he won't call, that puts the onus on me.

Believe it or not there are many others! I make New Years Resolutions well into February. Perhaps I will post more soon. But for now I must get to work...which reminds me of several other New Years Resolutions...

Last Straws

I live in Northern Virginia and commute about 11 miles each way to my government job in Southwest Washington DC.

When I go to the office printer I can see the statue “Liberty” that sits atop the Capitol Rotunda and the gauge the wind by looking at the flags that fly nearby. (At least until they construct another building on the postage stamp lot available on the nearby corner.) It’s a great city to work in and I am fortunate that I live fairly close-in, unlike some of my friends and colleagues who live in backwater towns like Haymarket and Chantilly. Although not as daunting as they challenge these people face in getting around town, I am to a large extent a prisoner of my commute.

To get to my office I rely on the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority (WMATA) Metrorail system.  Its an electric train that becomes a subway shortly after I board at East Falls Church.. My commute really starts when I drive three miles to some free street parking and walk about a quarter mile to the station. If I parked at the station it would be $3.75 a day.  I can not say I like taking the train though and at least one or two times a month I review the pros and cons of driving to work versus public transportation.

If I drove to work it would take  a lot less time, at least to get there (eighteen minutes versus forty minutes), at least in the morning. I would have flexibility at work to come and go when I please and to bring in bulky stuff that would not fit into the subway commute. The down side is that I would have to pay about $3 a day to park and the evening commute would typically be about an hour versus forty five minutes on the train. Additionally there is the stress of traffic and the wear and tear on the car, not to mention the physical dangers associated with traffic.

On the other hand, there is the option I currently pursue, the train. The government subsidizes my fare to the tune of $105/month.  It provides about ninety minutes of reading time a day. Its politically and ecologically correct and does not carry with it the same kind of stress as driving. But there are down sides to the train as well. When I catch it at my pre 6:00 am start time, it is typically a 12 to 15 minute gap between trains, so timing the departure from the home is critical. Once at work, I am more or less stranded. If I have a doctor’s appointment it means taking off a half or whole day. Some of the other riders cultivate the inner misanthrope in me, whether it be with loud talk, feet on the seats, or just general weirdness.

To date, the cheapskate in me has been winning the day, but now the WMATA has introduced a plan that could push the balance over to driving the gas-hog to work. According to a recent newspaper article they plan on putting television monitors on the trains to keep me updated on sports, news and weather, as well as generate advertising. In the word’s of Popeye the Sailorman, “that’s all I can stands and I can stands no more”  TVs on the train would pose an enormous intrusion and if its anything like my experience in waiting rooms or bank lines, the inability to escape it would quickly, I believe, become intolerable.

But we will see….

Not Seeing Eye to Eye

"I can see right through you."

Oh, yeah?

"Yeah."

You're so blind.

"That so?"

You need me. Listen: if it wasn't for me you'd be totally lost; stumbling around; fallen in some ditch.

"I think I would've found my way."

Yeah, right.

"Well... I guess it's 20/20 hindsight."

Try 20/200.

"Well... I don't know. I had some good contacts."

Oh, yeah -- they didn't last too long.

"Well... it didn't work out."

And, you didn't shed many tears.

"Actually, I did. It was an issue."

Oh... poor bay-bee! You're killing me.

"Come on now -- you're just hurt."

Maybe I am. Not like I have no reason.... So what is it -- tell me --

"Well... look, you were beautiful in your day. You broadened my perspective."

I'm too big, right?

"Hey -- times change. Like they say, 'thin is in.'"

Oh, beautiful! I'm too fat.

"Okay, sure -- a little thinner, and a little more flexible. Just a different style."

I can't believe it! You're ditching me for some emaciated featherweight!

"Come on now...we had -- what -- eight or nine good years. Together every day. Had a lot of laughs. Saw a lot of sights. You left a real impression on me."

Oh, great. So, now, you're putting me away.

"Hey -- I'll still see you -- just not all the time. You'll be like -- like a spare -- you know."

Oh, great! That's just great. Beautiful. Wonderful. Why don't you just feed me to the lions?

"Come on baby -- get a grip -- your making a spectacle of yourself."

Slip and Fall

Drove by the skating rink yesterday. A shudder coursed through your humble driver's frame.

Twenty years ago, the rink was less elegant. No wrought iron fence, or postmodern sculpture, or ornate clubhouse. Fewer encircling trees and shrubs. Then, it was just a small, shallow, frozen pond with temporary, wooden walls marking out the bounds and a booth renting skates and selling hot chocolate. Remember it well.

Let's go skating! It was the future other Householder speaking. "Okay." But, really, it was not okay. What is it about a woman and love that makes a man do things he knows are not okay -- like hours of browsing at a craft fair or suffering a make-over as if he were a hollow, smiling mannequin. Oh, yes, your humble Contributor had succumbed to such prior feminine suggestions. And, when he stepped back on to tractile earth, he could be heard uttering prayers of thanksgiving. Ah, blessed bruises and mere sprains. Then, they could say of him, "He has broken none of his bones."

Here's the concept: take a slick, treacherous surface formed of water in it's solid state; affix to a blue plastic boot a steel edge, sharpened to enhance the treachery; step onto the slick surface with an eye to propelling one's body toward frigid collision.

Come on. It'll be fun. Dead of winter. The hand of the thermometric dial trying to decide between seven and eight degrees Fahrenheit. The probability -- nay, the certainty -- of some injury. "Okay."

Twenty minutes on the ice. Getting the hang of it how. Then, let go of the sides. Alright, letting go now. Twenty more minutes. Going, more or less, with the ovalesque flow -- skidding, stumbling, swaying -- like a degenerate Dorothy Hamill cast in a Samuel Beckett play. Ten more minutes. Gaining some confidence. Might try just a single axle. What! Hey, you! I'll catch you -- watch me fly. Wait! One blade's teeth are biting down hard and the other is gliding onward and the torso is twisting like a tort.

Here's the biomechanical problem: how much stress can the lowly distal fibula take before fracturing? No instruments on hand to measure the pounds per square inch with any precision: noted only a sound like a snapping breadstick, then the icy embrace of the face.

A rink guard comes to a frosty, sudden stop, and looks down upon the writhing, glacial victim. C'mon buddy. You're alright. Don't look like a wimp in front of your girlfriend. "Okay."

A hand up; a tentative shifting of weight; a paroxysm; a grasping of the swollen joint; a brief pirouette; a second, more graceful decline. Next thing, the boot's off; a large bag of ice is applied; a chill wind evokes a profound shiver. "Let's go skating. [Brrrr!] It'll be fun." Involuntary shaking and laughter from the future other Householder. A length of excruciated hops, skips, and jumps; a plaster of Paris; a bottle of controlled substances; a few extra pillows for the encased, distal appendage; a dazed affect with small amounts of drool about the corners of the mouth. "I feel funny. My ankle hurts." Just rest. "Okay."

Felt just a twinge dancing a waltz at the wedding.

Poor Relations: Himself's Near Death

Sure, Himself is down with the influenza.

Is that the way?

'Tis. He's been laying in bed half the week, sick as you like.

Ah, the creature!

Oh, now, don't be taking his part now, girl. Likely as not, it's mostly put on.

Oh, no.

See, now, he's got the whole lot of ya bamboozled. Sure, he's a great one for puttin it on, you know. There's the dishes waitin to be washed, and next thing he's got his feet up and cold cloth on his pate, swearing he's been struck with a fever. 'B'god' he says, 'this is it. I'm certain I'll die tonight. Run, now, and get the priest.'

And, I says, 'I'll not until you've got those plates scrubbed and put up.'

But, did he have a temperature?

Well, a course he did -- sure, we all do, don't we. His was a hundred three -- sure, just a few ticks above me own. And, him a man -- a sweaty and unruly man, at that -- sure, he's bound to be hotter.

But, no sooner had I taken the blessed termometer from his gob, he was up and sayin, 'Faith,' he says, 'Watch now, the merc'ry's ready to burst out an spill out on the floor an roll up in little balls. God save us.' With that, he fell back in the chair, as pale an brittle as me own mother's bone china.

But, sure, he must've been feverish?

Well, I don't know about that. Next thing he said he was chilled to the marrow, shakin and shiverin like a hindoo, and I says, 'Well, which is it? Hot or cold? Make up your mind. And, don't tink that first ting tomorrow, you won't be be up the roof tendin the hole ye made on Shrove Tuesday.' But, sure enough, that next mornin, I couldn't rouse him for nothin. So, I left him be.

Ah, the poor ting.

Not a bit of it. I'll have him up now scrubbing the floor in no time, and he'll be none the worse for it. I'm just after order'ing up his medications on the online apothecary.

Wonders never cease.

'Tis grand.

And, sure, he's still a fine figure of a man.

He is, at that.

Sickness Unto Death

Your humble Contributor's current condition of health puts him in mind of that unusual philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, when he described the "sickness unto death".

To be sick unto death is, not to be able to die--yet not as though there were hope of life; no, the hopelessness in this case is that even the last hope, death, is not available.

How well he described the current condition: the mucus membranes as swollen and irritated as a disheveled post-carnivalian on Ash Wednesday morn; the various, unseen passages that keep otolaryngologists busy (and playing golf on Wednesdays on rather lush, exclusive courses) packed with a substance most nearly resembling mortar; nasal discharges expelled with the force of a runaway train, often referred to as "sneezing", which somehow does not capture the brief but frame-shaking and death-dealing events; expectorations drawing forth, apparently, from the fifth or sixth circle of the inferno; the head seemingly in the grip of an ever-tightening vise.

Strange that this viral peril begins with harmless waterfowl in China. But, when you consider that Donald Duck is now among them, the pieces begin to fit together.

Your humble Contributor speaks as one who has well-nigh mastered the vocal quackery of this slick caricature of a duck. In fact, fitted with the proper feathered suit and bill, he might pass himself off as the real thing -- waddling toward the unsuspecting visitors to the Magic Kingdom, charming them with his disarming presence, and embracing them, only to pick their pockets.

On your next pilgrimage to that site, be on your guard. Meanwhile, pass the tissues.

Walking Into Things

Your humble Contributor, ever mindful of the safety and edification of our gentle visitors, has these brief thoughts to pass along.

Now, we are all familiar enough with doors. These days, more and more will simply open for one who approaches, provided that the generally attentive imp perched in his smokey, little glass case is alert and one's gait speed is within his range of tolerance. Then, the imp pulls whatever lever he must, and the machinery of the fine ingress or egress is engaged, and -- hooray! -- the portal to another internal world -- such as , say, Walmart -- is op'd. And, the vigilant imp turns his attention to the next entrant, cracking another tiny sunflower seed between his teeth.

But, most closed doors still require the turn of a knob to open. Your humble Contributor learned this anew today -- the marvelous engineering of a door -- a small, but complete twist of hand is all that is required. But, that much is definitely required. Oh, and, these doors are so solid and sound and still, especially the metal variety: wonderfully resistant to flesh and bone in motion. What an impression they leave.

So too, signposts, your Contributor has discovered. These spectacles, which fairly give him sight, still bar the faint mark left by such a post -- let's see, the head was turned to the side, distracted by some non-prescribed spectacle, as the head, including vision-correction gear, and most of the torso (along a vertical line) addressed the slightly rusted steel edge mid-stride. Something of a shock, yes: like bumping into a particularly hard, immovable stranger.

Hello! Oh, dear! Are you alright? I'd offer you a hand; but, well, as you see.... Yes, I maintain this same outpost -- I am a post, after all -- standing vigil over this special space reserved for the weak of limb; warning away the sleek and the strong, lest they suffer rebuke and penalty; never mind the weather or the hour. I am here -- and, of course, now, you have found me. Delighted.

Such chance meetings. And, as a consequence, the tiny screw on the glass frame ever seeks to loosen itself and free the old, slightly marred but still lucid lens, and the crease in the forehead shows forth most noticeably during expressions of surprise -- such in that millisecond before the face strikes the door.

Though, age does present it's problems. Clerks at three separate stores politely noted that no clip-on sunvisors are now available for these "dated" glasses; one graciously offered that she had not seen such since the last century. What a charming salesgirl.

But, there it is: a lesson in physics, engineering, fashion, and the serendipitous encounters with man-made objects. To some, we might suppose, these are pedestrian observations -- but, then, your Contributor was on foot.

The Ravished Curl*

Sam, seated at the edge of the chaise longue, leaned forward, catching his chiseled chin in the palms of his strong but gentle hands, his muscular frame slightly hunched, his bronze skin momentarily paled.

"I guess I need to get my hair cut."

Dee slid next to him, running her delicate fingers through his golden, manly locks. "Oh, no, baby," she said in a feigned pout, "I won't let them touch a single strand."

"Yeah, well, the guys at the agency are, like, are giving me a hard time. They say things like: "Hey, Sam, with that mop, you couldn't get a modeling job with a third-tier romance publisher.'"

"Oh, baby, don't let those philistines get to you," Dee said, "You could take all of those guys on at once in a shoot."

"Maybe..., I don't know," he said, stroking his jaw bone. "If it would just lay down a little, I could probably live with it -- but, it just stands up. Every morning, I stare in the mirror and think: 'Man, you look like Bozo on steroids.'"

Dee drew him to her ample and womanly self, still stroking his strong but gentle curls. "Oh, that's nothing, baby. You don't have near that clown's pattern baldness. We'll get you some relaxer and fix that right up. Then, you'll be a dead ringer for Fabio."

Sam looked up at her from her nurturing embrace. "I heard that he has, like, prostate issues now."

"Nooo, baby. You heard wrong. He might have lost an inch or so off his pecs. But, hey, he's forty-something."

Sam straightened up. "Look, tomorrow morning, I think I'll run over to 'Hair It Is'" and just get a trim."

Dee smiled. "That place closed up years ago, silly."

"How about 'Hair-Em'."

"Closed, too. You just haven't gotten your hair done for so long, baby. You're looking at either paying $200 for some guy named Sebastian to fuss and snip for half an hour, or paying $15 for some guy named Tam to clip you quicker than a Ho Chi minute. " Sam sank back in his seat, his crystalline blue eyes cast downwards.

"Baby, you're way too upset about this," she said. "Here. Finish your wine and get to bed. Sleep on it. You'll feel better in morning."

"I heard Fabio doesn't drink wine," he said, regarding the vintage pinot grigot.

"More talk," she said, plucking a bit of golden dandruff from his rugged head. "I mean, the guy's Italian!"

"Alright," he said, standing up with his sparkling goblet in hand, looking every bit David in the hands of Michelangelo, then walking, in his Adonic gait, down the hall.

"Goodnight, Delilah," he called.

"Night, Sam, I'll be along in minute" she replied over her elegant shoulder, already rummaging through the lower cupboard drawer and drawing out the dusty, cigar box.

She opened it and removed the scissors, still cold and sharp to the touch; ran her fingers along the steely teeth of the thinning shears; and, caressed the crusty, ancient bottle of hair tonic.

A dark grin came over her face as she whispered, "Oh, Fabio -- tinted and blow-dried god of romance -- I will do your bidding. This guy's history."

* Apologies to Alexander Pope.