About 45 years ago, when I had grown tired of hearing my kids begging me for a pet, I let them drag me into a pet store thinking I could get away with buying a couple of goldfish in a bowl. But we never made it past the puppies, because there he was: the most beautiful, soulful, brown-and-white fur ball of a Sheltie (Shetland Sheepdog) I had ever laid eyes on. And it was love at first sight. We took him into the little play area, where he wagged his fluffy tail and chased a ball from me to my son to my daughter and back to me, cranking up his cuteness factor to 110% and yipping ecstatically at the thought that we might become his forever family. Only Ebenezer Scrooge could have said no to that face, and he seemed to know it. He came home with us that day; we named him Toby; and no dog was ever loved more.

Just four short years later, Toby tragically passed away of pancreatitis — possibly a genetic condition of which the folks at the pet store were unaware, or had failed to inform us. At that point, the reason didn’t matter; we were all heart-broken, and I vowed I would never adopt another animal. I just couldn’t go through that again. And I didn’t.

But my kids made no such pledge, and when my two young animal-whisperers grew up and established their own homes, they immediately adopted dogs and cats and have never been without one (or more) since, despite the pain of the inevitable loss. And three years ago, I moved into a household that already included one dog and one cat. And once more, I was hooked.

Dixie was a shelter pup — her DNA shows that she is part Staffordshire, part American pit bull, and part Golden Retriever. She has the best qualities of each breed: the protective instincts of the first, the tenacity of the second, and the loving loyalty of the third. She is incredibly smart and mostly obedient, but relentless in her appeals for food or play or scratches. At almost four years of age, she is alternately a big ball of energy — not as inexhaustible as a Border Collie, certainly, but trying hard for second place — and a champion napper, curling up in the most improbable positions.

Our cat, on the other hand, is from a whole different planet. She has no name: she is simply referred to as “Cat” or “Kitty,” because she wouldn’t respond to a name in any event so why bother. She is older — around twelve, we think — and feels that her age and her multi-colored beauty entitle her to be the laziest, most spoiled creature on earth. She has only three demands, but they are absolute and non-negotiable: feed me regularly, pat me occasionally, and keep the damn dog out of my way or I’ll claw her eyes out.

Dixie loves her family unconditionally; Cat allows us to live with her. They could not be more different. Cat is too regal to play with humans, and a rubber mouse or feathers on a stick will only hold her attention for a moment or two. She doesn’t mind a little trip to la-la land, though, from a bit of catnip now and then.

Dixie, on the other hand, is hilariously playful and has a favorite toy: a red, hard rubber, figure-8-shaped thing that is great for throwing, fetching, tugging, or just gnawing. It has no name; it’s just a thing called “Toy,” and she will continue to chase after it or try to pull it away from you for as long as you have the strength and endurance to keep at it. And she always remembers where she left it.

Cat mainly wanders from room to room, seeking out the ideal resting spot. It may be a blotch of sunshine on the floor near a west-facing window, or the top of Daddy’s recliner, or the penthouse level of her kitty condo. And there she will recline, surveying her domain, and frequently preening herself until satisfied that she is the most beautiful creature in the room.

Dixie, on awakening from one of her frequent . . . is it okay to say “cat naps”? . . . will immediately set out in search of human companionship. Preferably a human with food. If she hears the rustle of cellophane, or the snap of a food container lid, she comes bounding into the room, ears up and eyes searching for something edible. If I tell her “no food,” she looks downcast, walks slowly toward the door, and — giving it one last try — turns to look at me hopefully, as though food will somehow, magically, materialize. She would eat anything, and constantly, if she were allowed to.

Cat, of course, nibbles daintily from her little dish in small amounts several times a day, and delicately sips water — sometimes from her own water bowl and sometimes from Dixie’s big bowl — as needed. She scorns most people food, other than fish or butter. Annoyingly perfect little creature!

And when I’m sitting in my den, tapping away at my keyboard as I am at this moment, Dixie will come strolling in, sit by my feet, and stare at me until I look up. If I say “no food” and she still doesn’t walk away, I know what she wants. I then ask her, “Dixie, want a scratch?” and she stands up, waits for me to put aside the iPad and the lap desk, and assumes the position: sitting at attention, her back toward me, head cocked adorably to one side. And then it’s time for therapy . . . for both of us. There is, after all, nothing so satisfying as the feel of a dog enjoying the feel of a human.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendocha
7/28/23

Aha! He’s been spotted at last . . . and not in Belarus, where he was initially reported to have been living in exile, but in his home town of St. Petersburg, Russia. And at the much-touted Russia-Africa Summit, to boot (though reportedly “on the sidelines”).

And here he is, in all his casual glory. But why is he wearing jeans and a polo shirt while shaking hands with a member of one of the African delegations? (One report, from the EU Observer, identifies the gentleman as the President of the Central African Republic.) Does Yevgeny Prigozhin not own a suit? It would appear that this “meeting” may have been a spontaneous one, turned into a photo op for Prigozhin to mark his first public viewing in a month. The contrast between his appearance and the elegance of the delegation member could not be more striking. This was a photo op gone bad.

But it has now also been reported by CNN that Prigozhin apparently spoke earlier this week to an African media outlet, assuring them that his Wagner Group is still very much “in business” in Africa, and will continue to represent the interests of their African “clients” in the future — their only restrictions at this time being that they cannot do “anything that contravenes the interests of Russia.”

And there it is, folks: the clear signal that everything Prigozhin does . . . everything he has been doing for the past month . . . everything he will be doing in the foreseeable future . . . is all happening with the consent of, on the instructions of, and under the watchful eye of the Kremlin itself. As if we hadn’t already figured that out. And what are the “interests” that are of such value to countries such as Mali, Libya, et al., that they are willing to pay Russia, through Wagner, several fortunes in mining rights to gold and diamonds? Just thinking about it gives me nightmares, and particularly in light of today’s news of a military coup against the EU-allied, neighboring country of Niger. I have to ask myself: when is a coincidence not a coincidence?

So there we are — Chapter 3 of Yevgeny Prigozhin’s circuitous journey from fierce leader of a military rebellion, to exiled enemy of Vladimir Putin himself, to . . . what? Putin’s Puppet, it would seem. Stay tuned for Chapter Four.

NOTE: The foregoing comments — as with all of my blog posts — represent the observations and opinions of the author (me), and of no other individual or organization.

Brendochka
7/27/23

I’ve recently read of some very interesting archaeological discoveries in a number of countries:

– In London, an ornate Roman mausoleum has been unearthed beneath a construction site near the south bank of the Thames River.

– Construction workers have excavated a perfectly-preserved, white marble carving of a head in the historic center of Rome.

– A 4,000-year-old Stonehenge-like sanctuary has been unearthed in the Netherlands.

– And archaeologists in Britain have dug up dozens of ancient Roman . . . tweezers???

Yes, I said tweezers — reportedly revealing the obsession of ancient Romans with hairlessness. According to experts, in the days long before Victor Kiam liked the Remington electric shaver so much he bought the company (remember the commercial?), the tweezers would have been used, not just for plucking eyebrows, but for removing any unwanted body hair, including from their underarms — presumably by both men and women. How the archaeologists know all of that, I can’t imagine — but they’re the experts, not I. Although I can imagine how it must have felt:

Ouch!

The newfound tweezers are now part of a larger collection of artifacts installed in a museum near Shrewsbury at Wroxeter Roman City, a settlement believed to have been as large as Pompeii in its heyday. These include perfume bottles, jewelry, makeup applicators, amulets to ward off evil, and something called a strigil — a skin scraper.

Double ouch!

Now, I have to ask: Am I the only one who sees the irony in this Roman hairlessness thing? Has anyone ever checked out the armpits of modern Italian women? Or their legs? (Don’t answer that — I really don’t want to know what you’re into.) Although shaving has become more common in recent years, it appears that body hair is making a comeback. Italian men — themselves largely unshaven — seem to like their women au naturel.

And it’s not only in Italy that you will find this belief in the beauty of naturalness. One such country is the Czech Republic — which comes as no surprise to me, as I was introduced to this phenomenon when I lived and worked in Prague in the summer of 1991.

I’ve already written at length about my memorable experiences in Prague in Chapters 11 and 12 of my first series of blog posts. But I neglected then to mention my introduction to the wonderful world of womanliness as practiced by the beautiful ladies of what was then still Czechoslovakia.

When my flight from Washington landed at Kbely Airport in Prague on that early May morning, I was met by one of our firm’s Czech employees, a delightful young man named Rudy. Giving me a guided tour along the way, he drove me first to the apartment that had been rented for me, dropped off my luggage, and then headed directly to the office less than a mile away, where I was to meet the people who would be both my co-workers and my adopted family for the next three months.

We rode the tiny elevator up to the fifth floor, and as the door opened, I walked directly into . . . a wall of body odor such as I had never in my life encountered. It smacked me in the face with the force of a tsunami, simply because it was so unexpected. But I managed to compose myself, and decided that I would have to figure out who the culprit was and try tactfully to help that person deal with the problem later. But as I was introduced to each person in turn, I realized with dismay that it wasn’t that simple, because the odor was not emanating from just one individual, but from nearly every person in the room. And they all seemed completely oblivious to it! What the hell . . . ?

Now, I’ve always been particular about personal grooming. And I’ve always considered good grooming to include the way we smell. Maybe it dates back to the otherwise cute little boy in my first-grade class who always smelled as though he’d just peed in his pants — I’m really not sure. But I do know that as far as I’m concerned, deodorant is our friend.

So what was it with my new Czech family? They looked clean. And it turned out that they were clean — meticulously so. Just two years out from under Soviet occupation, they still didn’t have large wardrobes, so they did a lot of laundry. And since most apartments and older offices — ours included — were not air-conditioned, they took a lot of showers. So that wasn’t the problem. When the young women — three blondes, all named Jana — wore sleeveless blouses, I did notice that they didn’t shave; but soap and deodorant should have taken care of that.

In time, I actually became accustomed to the smell. I can’t say I liked it — but I learned to live with it. Without air-conditioning, we kept the office windows open during the day, which helped some. I didn’t want to use air freshener, for fear of hurting my co-workers’ feelings. But finally, as I settled in and got to know the oldest of the three Janas pretty well, I mentioned off-handedly one day that I had to stop at a pharmacy to buy some toothpaste and deodorant. Bingo! That opened the conversation as I had hoped, and she launched into a diatribe on the evils of chemical deodorants. The Czech people, it turned out, did not like putting chemicals into, or onto, their bodies. Their soap and cosmetics were all pure, and their deodorants, such as they were, all chemical-free. The fact that they didn’t work didn’t seem to bother anyone.

*. *. *

There’s an old saying — “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” But is that always a good idea? I mean, there are places in the world where people defecate in the streets. Should we join them? Or societies where old people are put onto boats or rafts and set out to sea when it’s time for them to die. Not for me either, thank you. So in Prague, I kept using my deodorant, and left my new friends to enjoy their chemical-free lives. And peace and harmony prevailed.

As for the ancient Romans, I’m sure they would have appreciated a razor with a nice sharp blade; but they did the best they could with what they had. I have no doubt that one day our descendants will be thinking the same about us.

Just sayin’.

Brendochka
7/27/23

On Wednesday, July 19th, a Florida family was awarded a jury verdict of $800,000 for second-degree burns sustained four years ago by their then four-year-old daughter as a result of her having dropped a hot Chicken McNugget, which then lodged between her thigh and the seatbelt of their car. The story goes that the incident occurred while the child was apparently seated by herself in the back seat of the car with her order of the hot food. By the time the mother was able to pull over to attend to the crying little girl, the damage had been done.

Okay, that’s gotta hurt — a lot — and it appears to have left a scar. I sympathize with the little girl. Who wouldn’t? But how do you leave a four-year-old child on her own, where you can’t easily reach her, with a container of food, hot or otherwise? What if she had choked on something? Instead of driving away, how about taking a few minutes to go into the restaurant, or pulling the car into the parking lot, and having lunch with your little one? Anyway, the jury found that McDonald’s was negligent in not warning the customers of the fact that the food, freshly-cooked in hot oil, was . . . guess what? . . . HOT.

All together now: “DUH!”

There have been similar cases in the past, notably one — also against McDonald’s — involving an adult who was burned when she spilled her hot coffee on herself. Really? Again, I don’t question the injured person’s damages; but from a legal standpoint, every misfortune is not necessarily someone else’s fault. I’ve read that it only takes one minute for water at 158 degrees to cause third-degree burns. You certainly want your hot coffee to be at least that hot; I’ve seen estimates of the ideal temperature for maximum coffee flavor at anywhere from 140 to 200 degrees (boiling is 212 degrees). So be careful — unless you asked for iced coffee, it’s going to be HOT.

But trying to put myself in the mindset of those injured parties, I can think of so many instances that I could have blamed on someone else, as for example:

The Slurpee. Tell me you’ve never gotten a case of “brain freeze” from siphoning one of those sugary slush piles through a straw. Clearly 7-11’s fault for serving me an ice-cold Slurpee, right? I’m thinking permanent brain damage here. (That’s sarcasm, in case you hadn’t guessed.)

Books. Admittedly a lesser injury, but a bad paper cut in that webbed place between the thumb and forefinger from turning the pages too quickly should be worth something. Obviously the fault of at least two companies: the manufacturer and the book seller.

Candles. Do they caution you not to extinguish the flame with your fingers? Not to my knowledge.

Mascara. I don’t think there’s a warning on the package that sticking one of those wands in your eye could cause pain and a watery eye. No matter that you tried to apply the mascara while nursing a major hangover from last night’s party; you can also blame the bartender for that one.

Soup. Nobody wants lukewarm soup either — right? So heat it up, then neglect to blow on it before slurping up a boiling hot spoonful and scalding your tongue. It’s clearly someone else’s fault that you’ll be talking funny for a couple of days.

By now I’m sure you get my point. There is no limit to the outrageous excuses people can come up with in order to pass the blame to someone else, just because they can (and, not incidentally, because there may be a pot of gold at the end of that lawsuit). But here’s a thought: why not grow up, own up, and suck it up. Take some adult responsibility for your own actions and misfortunes. And above all, be careful — that hot food you ordered may actually be HOT.

Just sayin’.

Oh, and by the way . . . cancel my order of McNuggets. Thank you.

Brendochka
7/26/23

Some years ago, in the late 1970s, there was a TV series called “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,” about a woman plagued by the waxy yellow buildup on her kitchen floor. The show was about much more than that, but it was the floor wax problem that seemed to have pushed poor Mary Hartman over the edge.

Just a couple of years ago, I learned about another kind of waxy yellow buildup, when I thought I was going deaf. Coincidentally, it was about the same time that I began receiving mail solicitations for hearing aids. And recently, I stumbled across an online article about the various causes of hearing loss. Is somebody out there trying to tell me something?

I first noticed a problem with the sound on my television set — it had become muted. But when I checked the volume level, it hadn’t changed. That same evening, when the rest of the family came home from work, I thought they were trying to drive me crazy: they appeared to be lip-syncing, moving their mouths but barely whispering. I checked my calendar to be sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day. And then I realized that some sound was getting through to one ear, but not the other. Oh, my God! I had suddenly begun going deaf!

Obviously, I immediately set about getting a referral to a good otolaryngologist (better known as an ENT doctor — I just like to see if I can spell the big words), and made an appointment at the earliest possible time. The news was good: I had a simple ear infection . . . and an impressive amount of that waxy buildup I had laughed at when it was on Mary Hartman’s kitchen floor. A simple in-office Roto Rooter job, plus a short-term antibiotic, and I was good to go.

But age — there’s that “A” word again! — has actually robbed me of some of my previously sharp hearing, and I find myself using the closed captioning feature on my TV, and watching people’s lips as they speak to me because the sound of their voices comes through but the words are muffled. And I’ve noticed some rather interesting side effects of this circumstance — some positive, others . . . well, not so much. For example:

– Thunderstorms don’t bother me as much.

– I can’t hear the doorbell ring when I’m in my den. But the dog’s barking more than compensates; her voice still comes through, loud and clear.

– Neither do I hear the ringing of the bell when the ice cream truck comes around. On the other hand, I really should cut down on my ice cream consumption anyway — I have a tendency to be weak-willed when it comes to my favorite dessert.

– I can’t overhear other people’s private conversations, which I sort of miss . . . although I really shouldn’t.

– I frequently have to ask people to repeat themselves, which, for some unfathomable reason, they begin to find annoying after the first five minutes. Go figure.

– And I probably wouldn’t hear the blast of the horn just before the truck rolls over me and solves my hearing problem once and for all. Probably not a good thing.

For someone who used to be able to hear snow falling outside while watching TV in the living room of my third-floor high-rise apartment building (really), it is a bit frustrating. On the other hand, I still have, for the most part, all of my senses . . . except, perhaps, what I call the sixth sense: common. Never had it, never will. But I can still see, hear (for the most part), taste, feel, and smell. For all of that, I am grateful.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering why I haven’t just gone out and gotten a good hearing aid . . . have you checked out the prices of those babies lately? When Medicare decides they’re worth paying for, I’ll be first in line at the audiologist’s office.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/25/23

Following my comments earlier today on a company called Colossal Labs and their goal of bringing back the long-extinct Woolly Mammoth (and, as it turns out, also the Tasmanian Tiger and the Dodo!), I thought it would only be fair to learn a bit more about this company and its work than just the contents of a short presentation by CNN. And this is what I have found out:

The past is the future, and the future is now.

Or so it would seem, if one is to judge from a review of the impressive website of Colossal Labs (http://www.colossal.com). No amount of time or expense has been spared in its design and preparation, affording us a glossy, detailed look at their facilities, their “global advisors / thought leaders,” their global partner labs, and what appears to be their mission statement:

“EXTINCTION IS A COLOSSAL PROBLEM FACING THE WORLD. AND COLOSSAL IS THE COMPANY THAT’S GOING TO FIX IT. Combining the science of genetics with the business of discovery, we endeavor to jumpstart nature’s ancestral heartbeat. To see the Woolly Mammoth thunder upon tundra once again. To advance the economies of biology and healing through genetics. To make humanity more human. And to reawaken the lost wilds of Earth. So we, and our planet, can breathe easier.”

I don’t know about anyone else, but after reading that, I’m actually having trouble breathing at all. I’m scared.

For openers, I have a confession to make: In any and all fields of science, I am woefully ignorant. Absolutely, completely, totally, disgracefully ignorant. That said, however, I do have a functioning brain and an excellent grasp of the English language. So I can plainly understand that, when Colossal’s website talks about nothing less than attempting to “jumpstart nature’s ancestral heartbeat” and to “reawaken the lost wilds of Earth,” they’re messing with Mother Nature. Big time.

It’s not necessary to remind me of the amazing, beneficial scientific discoveries of the past that have made our lives easier, healthier, and longer. But when it comes to genetic engineering, I begin to worry. Isn’t there a reason that those animals have vanished from our planet? Whether you adhere to the teachings of the Bible or the theory of evolution, or both, don’t you think there’s some sort of time-released blueprint at work here? Has anyone considered whether a new generation of dinosaurs and dodo birds would be able to acclimate to our overheated, chemical-saturated world of today? Rather than having a beneficial effect on our current atmosphere, might they not — once again — be destroyed by it?

In other words, might we be going just a wee bit too far?

I would invite the reader to check out Colossal’s website and come to your own conclusions; and I would love to hear the opinions — both pro and con — of others. As I said, I am not a scientist. But, like most of the world’s population, I exist at the mercy of those amazing people who have such a “colossal” effect on all our lives.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/24/23

It’s okay — I had never heard the term either, until I read about it in Saturday’s “The Good Stuff,” a regular weekly CNN online column. And after reading about it, I have to ask: How in hell do the folks at CNN define “good”??!!!

Because they’re not talking about preventing the extinction of our earth’s living creatures. Oh, no. What they are talking about is the following:

“A biotech startup called Colossal, which has dubbed itself the ‘de-extinction company,’ has its sights on reviving the 4,000-years-extinct wooly [sic] mammoth.”

I don’t mean to be a party-pooper, but that just sounds bad to me. I mean, really, really bad!!!

Think about it . . . would you want one of those guys wandering into your yard?

But don’t run for the hills just yet. A further reading explains that such a project would require a great deal of genetic engineering, artificial intelligence (a scary concept in itself), and most likely several lifetimes to accomplish. In the meantime, they’re beginning in Botswana, working with a wildlife foundation called Elephant Havens, to monitor the behavior of orphaned elephants and gather genomic data on each animal. Their goal is to provide a blueprint for “releasing the elephants into the wild now, and mammoth hybrids to the tundra in the far future.”

Oh. Well, I feel much better now.

Seriously??!!! This is their goal? Has anyone thought to ask them one simple question: “Why?” Have they not seen Jurassic Park? I mean, why would any sane individual want to bring back prehistoric beasts when our planet is already struggling to preserve its existing animal life . . . including humans? Shouldn’t they be thinking first of applying their expertise toward something useful, like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . say, reversing global warming? Or feeding the world’s hungry? Or inventing a non-nuclear weapon that could be used to stop a Woolly Mammoth if it tried to carry off your pet pig?

And another question comes to mind: After the Woolly Mammoth, what’s next? Tyrannosaurus Rex, perhaps? A herd of Basilosaurus? Or how about a designer Glyptodon or two? Would it be legal to hunt them? Or domesticate them as house pets? By the way, what do they eat? Us?

Obviously, I don’t have the answers to any of these questions. I do know, however, that I’m very relieved that I won’t be around to see the birth of the first new-age Woolly Mammoth, or any of the other scary creatures as they reemerge from the primal ooze of eons past. It’s all I can do to coexist with the alligators in the pond up the road.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/24/23

My children are grown now. My children’s children are grown. Yet I suddenly find myself bombarded from every direction by yet another generation of Barbies (surely, the great-granddaughters of the original). She is everywhere. She is eternal. She is the playtime version of the Mona Lisa. And in her Pepto-Bismol-painted world of pink, pink, and more pink, she is undeniably, unabashedly, a girly-girl.

Wait . . . what??!!!

Has Barbie been sleeping under a rock? Where is independent Barbie — the young woman who has had so many careers she must be 140 years old by now? Where is the Barbie who has had an ongoing relationship with Ken, yet proudly maintained her singleness? Has she never heard of Betty Friedan and The Feminine Mystique? Whatever happened to the Equal Rights Amendment? Or have I just imagined the last 60 years of ever-increasing, more and more strident demands of women for more and more equality? (Though how you can be more equal than equal is beyond me.) But I digress . . .

Not to worry. Since she was first “launched” in 1959, Barbie has never really gone away. She simply adapts to the times, and finds her way into the hearts of each new generation of young girls who want to be just like her — as did their mothers, and now their grandmothers, before them. And she manages, in all her femininity, to also be a contemporary role model for her young admirers.

There’s even a stunningly beautiful Russian version of our favorite femme fatale, like a vision from a Tolstoy novel; and there are Barbies in the traditional styles of numerous other countries. She is not only eternally young and beautiful; she is universal. And she is cool.

I haven’t seen the new Barbie film, which has just been released in movie theaters, so I can’t speak to any message it may be trying to convey. Perhaps it is telling us that a woman can indeed be both feminine and independent, which would surely be a good thing. However, I’m not quite certain what that outfit (below) says about Ken. Maybe he’s been Barbie’s gay best friend all along. And I don’t really care. I’m just fascinated and amused by the whole big, splashy, fun-filled thing, which seems to me to be the real point.

Because in a world filled with daily tales of horror and devastation, isn’t that, in the final analysis, a very good thing?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/23/23

Note: The world learned yesterday that a great musical icon, Tony Bennett, had passed away at the age of 96. Ironically, I had composed the following blog post a day earlier, and I have chosen not to delete the reference to Mr. Bennett, as a small tribute to him. -Brendochka

* * *

Not surprisingly, Taylor Swift made headlines again this month, breaking all records with her concert in Singapore. She writes much of her own music, a great deal of it about love and the loss thereof, and is a multi-talented performer. And thank goodness as well for other outstanding singers such as Adele and Lady Gaga, and the immortal (we hope) Tony Bennett, who has only improved over the many decades of his career. They keep music — real music — alive.

But most song lyrics today are a total mystery to me. Between “gangsta” rap, hip-hop, heavy metal, and God-only-knows-what-else, I haven’t been able to distinguish a single word in more years than I can remember. And I’m not sure I want to.

Of course, it’s quite natural for someone of my generation (decrepit) to harken back to those good old days when pop music had melodies you could actually hum, and lyrics you could understand. They may have been corny and mushy, but they were also sweet and soothing.

Well . . . most of the time, anyway. In my day, we had the music of Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and Frank Loesser, among others. They wrote the most romantic ballads, and fantastic show tunes that I can still sing today, verbatim — though not, to my eternal distress, on-key. But occasionally someone would sneak in a novelty tune, whose lyrics were . . . well . . . puzzling. I don’t know who the composers or lyricists were, but let me give you a few samples (with no guarantee that I’ve spelled any of them correctly, but I can’t imagine that it matters):

– Marezy dotes and dozey dotes and little lamzey divey, a kiddly divey too, wouldn’t you . . .

– Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dab, said the monkey to the chimp . . .

– Chickery-chick cha-la cha-la, checkalaromi in a banana, kabolicka wolicka can’t you see, chickery-chick is me . . .

– Down in a meadow in a iddy-biddy pool, fam fwee widdle fishies and a momma fishy too . . .

– He was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin’ purple people-eater . . .

– She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini . . .

And the immortal:

– Does your chewin’ gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?

What does that even mean??!!!

I could go on, but you’re probably anxious to Google these to see whether I’m yanking your chain. I assure you, I am not. My point being, I suppose, that “crazy” is not limited to any single generation or sociological group. Like a cold, you just have to live with it until it passes . . . and try not to think about what might be around the next corner.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/22/23

I was awakened this morning by my phone dinging next to me, alerting me to a news flash. When I pried my eyes open, I was saddened to see that the world had lost another great entertainer, Tony Bennett. Even though he was 96 years old, and had been living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years, he was one of that generation that I thought — or at least hoped — would never die. But all living things do, eventually, and today it was his turn.

Tony Bennett was one of the very few remaining “idols” of my youth. I distinctly remember his first hit recording — “Because of You” — being played over and over again on the radio when I was just 12 or 13 years old. And when he “left his heart in San Francisco,” he stole all of ours.

But what I found most remarkable about Tony was his professional longevity. Until just a couple of years ago, he was still performing — and with the likes of Lady Gaga, no less — and recording the great old songs that are so sorely absent today.

So I just wanted to say “thanks, Tony,” and safe travels on your final journey. You will be missed.

Brendochka
7/21/23