It appears to me that if one is savvy enough one can negotiate through life without committing to anyone or anything.

Here's how it works.

Attending a formal fete? Nothing to wear? No problem. Two enterprising young Harvard B school women have created a "rent a dress" company.  Beg your pardon, that's rent a haute couture dress. I am not exactly sure how one goes about knowing precisely what works without trying it and several billion other dresses on before one commits, but I am fairly confident those in the know, know.

And if you don't have a date, not to worry. Escort services abound. Or Heidi Fleiss, but I think she closed her business and has a cooking school in Nevada. Plus, it was my understanding, for those who teetered on the brink of commitment, they were pushed over the edge about the concept of "rent a man" after watching the movie starring Dermot Mulroney and Debra Messing, The Wedding Date.  But I digress.

Your Zip car whisks you home.

The event is over, the dress is mailed back, the escort is sent packing, and you can, if you wish,  curl up with your latest Netflix. Your evening is complete.

Foot loose and fancy free.

(more…)

Get your lascivious fantasies under control, it's not what you might be thinking….I'm pretty certain, personally, I've never even met anyone named Mickey.

The Mickey that is being screwed with is our beloved, long venerated, multibillion dollar industry, lifelong iconic Mickey. 

No more Mr Nice Guy Mouse  Really? A snarkier, darker, more irreverent, Mickey? I wonder if Minnie was pushing this reincarnation. "Where's the edgier you, MIckey? You're just not doing it for me," she was heard to be lamenting.

I suppose, since Mickey's 80 years old now, left to his own devices he would have turned cantankerous. Isn't that what, eventually, we are all purported to do?

What's next? 

What else will Disney do to generate a renewed interest in their Brand?? Donald will admit that Huey, Dewey and Louie are actually his progeny since he was doing Daisy? Goofy will admit to moonlighting as the Big Bad Wolf? Videos of Annette and Frankie will surface, documenting their teenage squeaky clean image wasn't? 

Mess with success? Why not.

Consider New Coke, Tropicana's juice container and Crystal Pepsi, to name just a few that have been tinkered with.

Walked down the aisle in my supermarket, filled up my cart with, among other things, mayonnaise, white wine vinegar, baking powder, baking soda (what IS the difference?) checked out. Wondering what I am preparing to cook?

Not a thing.

I am preparing to attack my household stains. With home remedies that I found on line. Yeah, yeah, clearly have way too much time on my hands. But ya gotta do what ya gotta do and when the choices are to spend way too much money to have a professional come in, or resort to a fool's errand, why not pick the fool's errand?

So I did.

First off, the water stains on the dining room table. Apply mayonnaise, a heavy dollop, and leave it overnight. Okay. So I did. Overnight. Earlier in the evening however, I had my dry cleaning delivered. Not a word was uttered between myself and the delivery person. He looked at the table smeared with mayonnaise, I say nary a word. Thought to take out a can of tuna and place it on the table, but decided that might be a tad over the top. 

And no, the table is definitely shinier but the rings are still in evidence. 

Oh well.

Do you? 

Have you blown a job interview because you couldn't stop your stream of consciousness? Didn't have that second date because you clearly used up all of the words you were allotted in your lifetime on the first date? Find yourself conducting a conversation with a "wrong number," simply because they inadvertently dialed your number?

We've all been there, and done that. (Okay, maybe not you, but some of us). simply, inexplicably, unrelentingly, obsessively, blabbed on. How come?

I tried to find some scientific explanation. A hormone running rampant? A misfiring of a synapse? Personality Anxiety Disorder? Reverse Lockjaw?

In my poking around I did come across  a compulsive talking measurement test.  I kid you not. If you wish to take the test, go ahead. I, for one, am pretty clear that I don't want to know the result. 

Talking to yourself is okay. If you find yourself hanging on your every word, are sure that you haven't said it before, and can't wait to tell it to yourself again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.  

Or, you can opt for  Yogi Berra's, antidote for being accused of talking too much. He said "I didn't really say everything I said."

Do you speak computer? Does Berlitz have a course? Who writes this stuff?

PINGING: "In blogging, ping is an XML-RPC-based push mechanism by which a weblog notifies a server that its content has been updated.[1] An XML-RPC signal is sent to one or more "ping servers," which can then generate a list of blogs that have new material. Many blog authoring tools automatically ping one or more servers each time the blogger creates a new post or updates an old one."

Got that? Me neither. 

Why would I need to know what pinging is? Doesn't have anything to do with Ponging.
Apparently, it is to get the "subscriber feeds" to be sent on the day they are supposed to be sent. What a concept.

 I can figure this out, I thought. So in a moment of self sufficiency I went to the "Feedburner" (catchy name) for help. Google, not incidentally, is the parent of this activity.
Here's what I found.

"Need help with FeedBurner and our Help Center doesn't have the answers? Post your question(s) in this Group. 

Okay a help center. Read on.

Our previous home for discussions, FeedBurner Forums, IS NOW CLOSED to new posts but nearly all of its content history, from late 2004 onward, has been imported into this Group and is searchable here. (The old Forums site will remain up and running for some time to come for reference/web search results.)"

CLOSED FOR HELP? Since 2004? But, you can find the answers from previously posted questions. Did the stock hit its all time high in 2004? Would explain then, I suppose, closing shop in the feedburner help world. 

So, then. If you are reading this and can absolutely, positively, translate, interpret and fix my email problem, lemme know. 

If you, like me, shrug your shoulders, graciously accept that when the emailed blog shows up, it shows up, that works to.

Parli italiano?

In just a few days we turn our clocks back one hour. That's after we have confirmed with at least a dozen people that it is, absolutely and definitively, "fall' back and "spring" ahead.

Then we spend the next 5 or so months lamenting the fact that we have turned the clocks back one hour. We bitch and moan about it being dark at 4:30 in the afternoon.  We are a sorry lot.

For some the time change is welcomed. Embraced. Revered. Cocktail hour feels more appropriate when it is dark outside. For others, they can bound out of bed, refreshed and excited by the fact that it is lighter out. Their morning hopping, skipping, jumping routine can take place without the aid of headlights and dayglo vests. Now, isn't that a plus.

I have the same conversation with myself every fall. 

Why am I a northerner? 

I like the sun. I'm no longer a participant in the slathering of iodine/baby oil ritual, I actually apply sunscreen when I am out. But I do like the sun. I do like my skin to have an, oh so faint, golden glow. Delighted that this slight blush of color isn't a hot flash. 

Yeah, sure, there is something nice about the seasons. Leaves turn glorious colors, Central Park looks extraordinary after a snowfall. Sadly, the female body appears to think its going to be hibernating (an evolutionary flaw) and stores fat. 

Until sometime in April. Then the mood lifts. I can photosynthesize. I'm happy.

Eavesdropping. We all do it. While strap hanging over some folks on the subway, waiting for a movie to start, ordering at a take out counter. But those encounters only provide snippets of conversation.

Not the really good stuff.

The real deal happens at Barnes and Nobles Cafe. First off you can, like some demented Goldilocks, move from chair to chair until you find the one that is "just right." Once you've settled into your seat, opened your book, magazine, daytimer, iphone, you are good to go. You are now ready to be transported and totally absorbed in another's life. Job interviews, break ups, first dates. Yummy.

For example. The job interview. "So" asked the interviewer, "what salary range did you have in mind?" Now I want to whip around and say, "RANGE is the trick part of the question." But I can't do that. So I cringe and wait for their answer. "75-100K," he/she answered. Now what do you think the odds of getting higher than 75K is? Really.

The first/blind date are my favorites. Pretty much a replay of the job interview. Lot's of "how comes", and "tell me about your last one" and "what are you looking for" type questions.  "Marriage" I can attest, is not a good first date answer. 

"It's not me, it's you" was the best break up line, to date. 

I guess people who do inside trading, fix sporting events or participate in other nefarious activities don't frequent my local Barnes and Nobles. 

Too bad. 

A docent.

A lecturer, a tour guide, an explainer of things, capable of pointing, nodding and smiling. I can do that.

I am pretty certain that to be really effective I would have to attempt a British accent. It seems to me that New York nasal doesn't have quite the gravitas for the task. Other than Ringo Starr, I can't think of listening to an English accent and not thinking, what brilliance! what insight! what rubbish!

Can you imagine? I could be a momentarily anointed expert. Momentarily is, you see, conditional on how long the installation remains at the museum. I would think, based upon my ability to retain new information, the best bet for me would be to be assigned to the permanent collection. Or the garden tour. Unless someone slips in, during the night, and adds a new picture or plant you pretty much can guarantee you'll remember what you said yesterday. Hopefully.

One huge concern I have is that I have never been able to find my way out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I imagine the headline now. "Lost Docent and her group of out of town museum goers were finally found staving off starvation by lapping water out of the fountain in the Greek and Roman gallery." Alternatively, I could hope that my charges have short term memory issues. I could circle the same room over and over again in the hope that they wouldn't remember having looked at that picture just a few minutes before. That could work. 

And sensible shoes. I'd have to buy sensible shoes. And a headband. 

Pointing, nodding, smiling. I'm in.

As it should be. 

When Sendak wrote "Where The Wild Things Are", more than 50 years ago, it was either derided as too dark for children, or hailed as an incredible opportunity for its readers to unleash their "collective imagination."

And now, for sure, the collective imagination of its readers has been unleashed with Spike Jonze's interpretation of Sendak's classic.

And, it's the interpretations of the interpretations that I find fascinating.

Let's see. David Brooks of the New York TImes has a go with the concept of psychology and philosophy as the competing forces in shaping Max's behavior. The Call of the Wild Things by Charles McNair gives us an in depth analysis, questioning… is it the illustration, the story, or something else? Hint, it's something else. The Huffington Posts Jonathan Kim questions the rift between those who thought the film was ill conceived and misguided (yikes) and those who thought it charming and delightful (fuzzy and warm?)

For the record, I thought the film was ____________and will be continuing my interpretations on the interpretations around Oscar time.

If you have a comment on the comments of the interpretations of interpretors here is your chance to weigh in.

Or star gazing while stars' narrate. 

Okay, Thomas Wolfe, you're right, "you can't go home again." Have you been to the Planetarium recently? 

The first thing that struck me, upon entering the first floor, were the lyrics from Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge, as the ringmaster and chorus welcomed the unsuspecting to the show….

it will be… Spectacular, spectacular!

No words of the vernacular

Can describe this great event

You'll be dumb with wonderment

It was spectacular. And you did feel dumb, as there wasn't any way that you could really wrap your head around "the journey to the stars", as you were spending a disproportionate amount of time trying to figure out, "who is narrating this????" Star gazing faux pas number one, it's Whoppi Goldberg. Without nary a snarky comment or joke to compliment the incomprehensible explanation of the gases, planets, stars and ultimate creation of planet Earth.

Clear that when we must have taken a wrong turn when we found ourselves staring down a humongous dinosaur we weren't in Kansas anymore. There is a corridor that connects the museum and planetarium, and since they made me check my GPS at the door…Why not go into the theater there, for just a sec, and see if Whoppi was a momentary aberration, or not.

Not.

Meryl herself, sans any drama or accent, took us through a 5 billion year, but only 4 minute talk, as to the origin of the species. A performance, better, I might add, that the one she delivered in "Momma Mia." 

And, lastly, now back in the Space Odyssey, it was Maya Angelou's turn to explain the "big bang theory." With all the gravitas that she commands. Yet again, who really listened to what she was saying. We guessed and challenged each other with, "who is that" missing the bang, big or otherwise. 

So, for me, I want what I remember from my childhood. I want the droning, flat, decidedly dull voice of a narrator who does not distract me from the situation at hand. Not understanding a word of what they are saying.