Still out of commission, three days now. Who would have thought so much misery could be caused by empty spaces? There’s nothing there — just eight holes in the head. I don’t get it . . . but unfortunately, I’ve got it — and bad! Damned sinuses!
Hope to be back to some semblance of normal tomorrow. ‘Til then, good night.
Brendochka
1/20/24
While I’ve been feeling really crummy these last few days, have I concentrated on finding things that make me feel better . . . a good book, a favorite old movie musical, calling a good friend? Oh, no . . . that would be the smart thing to do. Instead, I’ve been sitting around, hunkered down in front of the TV, watching reruns of reruns of the goriest episodes of Midsomer Murders. And while only halfway paying attention, I suddenly sat up straight, because someone on TV said something about “the amount of people . . .”
You know that awful reaction most people have to fingernails scratching a blackboard? Well, that’s how I react to some — not all, but certain specific — grammatical errors. They are more than just pet peeves to me . . . they are verbal felonies, punishable by death. And among those criminals, right up at the top of the list, are otherwise educated people — older people who went to school when they actually taught grammar and spelling — who don’t know the difference between “number” and “amount.” So I take it as my duty to enlighten you, hoping that my explanation doesn’t just confuse you all the more.
In a nutshell, numbers are for counting . . . right? Okay, good. And things that can be counted are, quite simply, individual items. Like books, fire hydrants, forks, trees, TV sets . . . and people. Get it? The number of people, not the amount. Easy peasy.
Well, then . . . when do we use “amount”? When you’re talking about a mass (not a mess) or the volume of something. Like the amount of water in the ocean, the amount of gin in the martini, or the amount of money the Pentagon spent on toilet seats last year (but the number of toilet seats). There’s the amount of light emitted by the stars; but the number of stars. The total amount of water in the glasses; but the number of glasses. The amount of time it takes to read this annoying article; but the number of insulting names you’re calling me while reading it.
That’s all. It’s simple. And if you enjoyed this lesson, maybe next time we’ll tackle the difference between “lie” and “lay,” or when to use an apostrophe, or . . . well, never mind. I’ll just surprise you.
TTFN,
Brendochka
1/21/24
What do you do when you’ve got a stinking’, rotten, blinding sinus headache, just pounding away at your nose, your eyes, your forehead, making you woozy, keeping you from sleeping? . . . You know what I’m talking about, right?
Well, what you do is turn your computer off, dim the room lights, swallow a couple of sinus tablets, and take the day off.
So, see you tomorrow, folks . . .
Brendochka
1/20/24
It was inevitable that this should happen one day. He was a big, drooling, affectionate brute who would hump anyone or anything that didn’t run away, and he couldn’t be allowed to continue to attack people, even though he meant no harm. It was either have him fixed, or risk an eventual lawsuit.
Oakie, of course, was a dog. A big, handsome boxer who weighed probably close to 80 pounds but thought he was a lap dog, as my legs would attest after that one episode when he tried to crawl up onto the chair with me. And he belonged to my boss, Walter Surrey. I’ve written about Walter in the past, and if you’ve read those episodes, you may recall that his sense of humor was legendary . . . which was fortunate for me in light of my own occasionally warped thought processes.
Anyway, there was poor, unsuspecting Oakie, about to face the ultimate sadist . . . the snip-snip artist . . . the de-baller who would irreversibly change him from a magnificent example of horny masculinity into a pitiful, sniveling, shame-faced eunuch. And Daddy couldn’t even be there with him, because he had to leave on a business trip to China. It would be up to his Mommy to see him through the worst time of his life.
But that didn’t mean Daddy didn’t love him. In fact, Walter was so worried about poor Oakie, he insisted that I send him (Walter, not Oakie) a telex — the fastest and most high-tech means of communication with China in those days before cell phones — as soon as I knew the surgery was over and Oakie was all right. And off Walter went to the Orient, leaving me to figure out how to word a telex that would surely be read by the censors in Beijing. This was going to be fun.
Walter’s wife Dana dutifully called to let me know that the procedure had gone well and Oakie had come through it like a champ . . . as yet blissfully unaware of the loss of his precious family jewels. And I sat down to compose the following message, sadistically envisioning the Chinese censors trying to figure out what the hell it meant:
“Oakie’s bark now one octave higher. Sends love and thanks. Brenda”
Walter told me later that the American clients with whom he was traveling had laughed themselves sick when they saw my telex and he explained who Oakie was. We never did hear anything from the Chinese officials.
It was only later that I realized I could have summed it all up in just two words: “Oakie doakie.”
Damn!
*. *. *
That all happened some 40 years ago, and Oakie has long since been reunited with his cojones on the other side of that legendary Rainbow Bridge. Walter left us in 1989; but stories of his mischief live on in memory, and I’ll probably toss a few more of those your way from time to time. But for now, I’ll be saying good night.
“Good night, Walter. Good night, Oakie . . . Oakie, no! Down, boy! Down! Bad boy, Oakie! . . . Walter, that is NOT funny!”
Brendochka
1/18/24
As I do every day, I’ve been scanning the headlines, both for my own edification and for any tidbits that might serve as inspiration for this blog. What I have found, however, is a weird conglomeration of ups and downs, highs and lows, leaving me with more questions than answers and a sense of futility at the thought of even trying to understand this world we live in (at least until Elon Musk succeeds in populating Mars).
So, since misery really does love company, I will graciously share with you this embarrassment of riches known as the daily news (all compliments of BBC News):
1) Russian poet Lev Rubinstein dies after car crash. This beloved poet and “key figure in the Soviet underground literary scene and a critic of President Vladimir Putin, has died six days after being hit by a car in Moscow, his daughter announced.” Mr. Rubinstein, 76, had been struck by a vehicle at an intersection in Moscow on January 8th and lay in a coma, in a Moscow hospital, for several days before succumbing to his injuries. Conclusion: Bad news, obviously . . . except perhaps for Vladimir Putin, who now has one less critic to deal with. Questions: Why is there no information as to the way in which the accident occurred, whether the driver was charged, etc.? Am I simply paranoid after reading about all the recent mysterious deaths of other Putin opponents? Well, maybe . . .
2) Iceland lava slowing down after day of destruction. In this literary masterpiece of good news / bad news, we learn that — while the lava flow from the latest volcano eruption in southwest Iceland is slowing (good), it is only doing so after causing the destruction of homes in the town of Grindavik and the evacuation of the entire local population (very bad). BBC News was told by volcanologist Evgenia Ilyinskaya that “the peninsula could be entering a period of frequent eruptions, known as the New Reykjanes Fires . . . eruptions could take place ‘every few months or once a year for several decades or several centuries.’” Conclusion: Obviously horrible news. Question: Why on earth would anyone choose to live in the shadow of an active volcano? Hello? It’s not like they didn’t know it was there. The displaced families have my total sympathy, of course; but I strongly urge them to consider moving while they can.
3) Houthi missile hits US-owned cargo ship off Yemen. Very bad, obviously. But here’s my two-part question: Who are the Houthi (Houthis?) and why are they suddenly doing this? My mind is already cluttered with too many actual and potential wars; I don’t think I can handle another one.
4) Iran extends Nobel Prize winner’s prison sentence. In this story, which sounds like it’s right out of a Russian newspaper, this poor lady keeps getting more and more time tacked onto her sentence for allegedly bashing Iran’s “tyrannical” government and advocating for women’s rights, among other things. No questions on this one; it’s an all too familiar tale of actual tyranny and oppression being used to deal with legitimate opposition in the only way the government knows how.
5) Germany’s far right seek revolution in farmers’ protests. “Far-right groups have discussed toppling the German government as they seek to harness the anger of ongoing farmer protests over subsidy cuts.” I don’t know what to say about this one, except perhaps . . . Somebody warn the Kaiser!
6) King Frederik: Tens of thousands turn out for succession. At last, some happy news. All the world loves a handsome king and his beautiful wife. And at last, a monarch — his mother, Queen Margrethe — who knows when to step down. She’s 83, she has a bad back, she has been on the throne of Denmark for 52 years, and she’s decided it’s now her son’s turn. Good for you, Your Majesty. And now that you have a bit more spare time, could you please explain this concept to some of our over-aged politicians in the United States? We’d greatly appreciate it.
It is rather a shame, though, that the new King has to be the tenth Frederik of Denmark. Am I the only one who thinks his written name — Frederik X — looks like a subsidiary of an Elon Musk corporation? Yeah . . . probably. But the whole Musk “X” thing is, to me, like a case of hives — it just keeps spreading, and spreading, and spreading . . .
*. *. *
But I digress; and this could go on forever (much like those hives). So I’ll just give you one last headline and let you decide for yourselves whether you want to check out the details.
7) ‘God gave us Trump’ – evangelicals key in Iowa vote. He won the Iowa caucuses. I have absolutely no questions, and no comment. My brain has just shut down.
Good night.
Brendochka
1/17/24
And there it is . . . the face you just want to smack.
You teach your kids to be good losers, and — just as important — good winners. And then one of them grows up to be . . . well . . . this.
In 1961, Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley had a hit musical on Broadway titled Stop the World — I Want To Get Off. Sixty years later, I’m hoping their copyright has run out, because I’m adopting it as my theme song, my mantra . . . and quite possibly the epitaph for my tombstone.
Just sayin’ . . .
Brendochka
1/16/24
It seems that — despite my best intentions to turn my writing toward the lighter side — the news keeps stalking me, demanding my attention. And this item is important. (I know what you’re thinking: Aren’t they all?) Well, yes, but . . .
At last, we have a surprising update on Russian HOSTAGE Alexei Navalny, from his new prison “home” — sardonically nicknamed “Polar Wolf” — in the outer reaches of nowhere: the Yamal-Nenets Region of Siberia, some 40 miles inside the Arctic Circle.
In his first public appearance (via video link) since being transferred to Russian Penal Colony IK-3, Navalny — head shaven and generally appearing gaunt and unwell —was yet able to smile thinly and joke. Speaking of the brutal conditions, he said that it is “a very cold place,” and that “they take newspapers here to cover up” — it’s “much warmer to sleep with [the newspaper] than without it.” [CNN, Jan. 12, 2024.]
But he wasn’t kidding about the cold; according to AccuWeather, the high temperature yesterday in Kharp, Russia, where the prison is located, was minus-17 degrees Fahrenheit, the low minus-22 . . . not to mention that the daylight hours extended all the way from sunup at 10:45 a.m. to sundown at 2:54 p.m. — a total of 4 hours and 9 minutes of pale sunlight. I’d call that brutal.
He also spoke of “meal breaks” — ten minutes in which to eat “two pieces of disgusting bread” and try to wash it down with “two mugs of boiling water.” No tea bag. He says it is impossible to eat “like a normal person,” and that this is obviously done “solely to keep the prisoners from being normal.” [CNN, Jan. 12, 2024.] His complaints to the authorities were, of course, summarily dismissed by the courts.
*. *. *
The CNN video was also able to capture pictures of Navalny and other prisoners — mostly hard-core, violent, repeat criminals — working in what appears to be a laundry of some sort, though from the appearance of the materials at hand, they may have been processing animal skins. At least the men seem to be warmly dressed for the photo op.
*. *. *
One of Navalny’s team — Kira Yarmysh, a well-known Russian writer and his press secretary and aide since 2014 — has spoken of the difficulty of monitoring his condition in this new location . . . a condition that she said has “shifted” (presumably meaning it has deteriorated). Her work on Navalny’s behalf has earned her multiple arrests and detentions in Russia; she now lives in exile somewhere in Europe, where she continues to advocate tirelessly for his release and for his organization’s anti-corruption cause.
*. *. *
That was the extent of the video (as seen online) before the doors again slammed shut on this one brief view of the prisoner . . . no, not prisoner — HOSTAGE . . . Alexei Navalny.
If this pathetic nod to freedom of the press was intended to reassure Navalny’s family and friends of his well-being, it failed miserably. What was confirmed to the world, however, is that he is in a desperate situation, dealing with untreated health issues, and consigned to one of the worst places on Earth for the next 30 years. You may say that at least he is still alive. But he is in a living hell of Vladimir Putin’s creation.
*. *. *
Alexei Navalny, Vladimir Kara-Murza, Evan Gershkovich, Paul Whelan, and all the other HOSTAGES — Russian, American, or otherwise — falsely imprisoned for strictly political reasons, must be released. I cannot say it often, or urgently, enough.
Brendochka
1/16/24
I’ve been musing today on a happy theme while giving our dog Dixie her “scratchies.” I’m talking about the so-called “dumb” animals who are, in general, so much sweeter than people . . . so much more loving and loyal . . . so much more deserving of our love for them. And not just the ones we immediately think of as pets: the dogs, cats, birds, the occasional guinea pig or ferret — all those non-verbal, non-judgmental members of our families who give so much and ask so little.
They’re just a few of the multitude of fur babies out there. Take, for example, this friendly boa constrictor from Prague in the summer of 1991 (you’re supposed to be looking at the long, slithery one — the other one is me). Granted, he was scaly and not furry, but very handsome in his own way. When I encountered him, he was just hanging out on the Charles Bridge with his “dad,” who assured me that he (the boa, not the dad) had been fed and wouldn’t hug me too hard, which he didn’t. We bonded immediately, and it was difficult to say goodbye, mainly because he resisted being unwrapped at first. Photo credit goes to my good friend Mary, who thought I was absolutely insane — as did a number of locals in the area. I heard “crazy Americans” whispered by more than one passerby.
*. *. *
On the much more hairy side, check out possibly the happiest of mammals: this laid-back, carefree, branch-hanging sloth. They plod through life, never deigning to hurry, just climbing trees, munching on leaves or fruit, hugging a limb or each other, and always . . . always . . . smiling. In my next incarnation, I’d like to be a sloth. Hugs are good.
*. *. *
And who doesn’t love a cuddly koala from Down Under? This fuzzy-eared, big-nosed marsupial with the perpetually bemused expression just begs to be picked up and hugged. Come to Momma, baby. You know, looking at that face again, he kind of reminds me of a second cousin on my father’s side . . .
*. *. *
And speaking of marsupials, this kangaroo has her little joey with her. So beautiful, so incredibly agile . . . and, I’m told, with a kick that will send you flying if you get in her way. So I’ll just admire her from the sidelines, thanks.
*. *. *
Well, hello, baby wombat. You are just about as cute as they come, and especially when you get the “zoomies” and go tearing aimlessly about, knocking things over just because you can. But, like your other Australian friends, you live too far away for me to visit. I would so love to give you a cuddle . . . and a mani-pedi.
*. *. *
Even farther south than “Down Under” are these mystifying, waddling, tuxedo-clad wonders of nature. How do they survive in their native climate, following their instinctual yearly routine of laying the egg(s), leaving Papa Penguin to sit on the egg(s) and hatch them while Mama Penguin goes off to sea to gather food for the family, then somehow finds her way back to her lifelong mate and newborn offspring? It’s a role reversal — and a monogamous relationship — that defies logic but somehow works for them. They are simply awesome little headwaiters, and how can you not love them?
*. *. *
And speaking of cute . . . Okay, I know I shouldn’t choose favorites, but I can’t help it. This snoozing baby otter just cries out to be picked up and snuggled and never put down. And do I see a half-open left eye? What a sneaky little devil you are, which perversely makes you even more lovable. If only it were legal to have you as a pet . . .
*. *. *
And next is . . . Whoa! Wait a minute. This isn’t a real animal — it’s Baby Yoda! But he isn’t vegetable or mineral, either, so what is he? And does it really matter, when you’re that cute?
*. *. *
Okay, I got off-track for a moment there. But let me close now with a gorgeous, majestic, sadly vulnerable (though happily not quite endangered) feline that I certainly wouldn’t recommend as a house pet, even if it were possible. But this beauty — the Siberian snow leopard — is worthy of our admiration and affection from afar . . . wa- a-a-ay afar. So worthy, in fact, that I think one look is not enough:
and . . .
And so I leave you, ‘til next time, with these beautiful images. (Do I hear someone calling “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty”? Wouldn’t blame you if you were.)
Brendochka
1/15/24
Your weekly reminder, lest we forget.
Their power resides in their words . . .
*. *. *
Another name added to the list this week:
Opposition activist, ordered held pending trial on grounds of “justifying terrorism” for backing a group critical of the Kremlin. If — or when — convicted, Sergei Udaltsov could receive a sentence of up to five years. He now joins the ranks of those political HOSTAGES being unjustly held in Russian prisons.
*. *. *
Please . . . bring them home!
Brendochka
1/15/24
Remember that? It was the very first line of my very first blog post, back in December of 2022. And here is the castle at the top of that . . . well, admittedly not very tall . . . mountain. But it felt like Mount Everest, even then, when I was 32 years younger and in much, much, much better shape.
How easy things were, that summer of ‘91 when I lived and worked in Prague! I walked everywhere — from my apartment to my office; up and down endless flights of stairs; and on weekends, all around the cobblestone streets and hills of that beautiful, historic city.
I traveled a lot in those days, schlepping my heavy luggage, jamming myself into the coach seats on airplanes, running for the metro trains in London and Moscow, and onto the funicular railway in Budapest. And thought nothing of it.
*. *. *
But oh, what a difference three decades can make!
It starts slowly . . . a little twinge here, some crackling sounds there, that spontaneous grunt when you get up from your chair. Then the first realization that you can no longer touch your toes without bending your knees and your knees don’t bend so well anyway and it kind of hurts your lower back so it’s probably best not even to try. And there’s that snapping noise in your left shoulder when you try to scratch the itch on your upper back. And one day . . . Omigod! That really hurt!
So you head to your friendly orthopedist, who tells you you’ve got garden-variety osteoarthritis. Nothing to worry about; it’s very common in older folks, and it won’t kill you . . .
Wait just a second! Did you say “older folks”??!!! You could not have meant me!!
But he did. And more time passes. First it’s the back — degenerative disc disease, requiring multiple spinal fusions. Then the patellas (patellae?): they’re now bone-on-bone, and before you know it . . . bilateral total knee replacement. And eventually, rotator cuff repair, one shoulder at a time. And somewhere in there, the plague of the computer age — carpal tunnel surgery — which actually was a breeze compared to all that other stuff. And before you know it, you’ve gone from climbing mountains and schlepping luggage to this . . .
The Rollator. Only you’re not quite as straight as the second picture, because that lady obviously doesn’t have five fused lumbar vertebrae.
That’s when you also notice a not-so-subtle shift in the way people treat you. You’re no longer an equal, a fun person to be included in all their activities. Oh, they’re nice to you — sometimes too nice — rushing to open doors, asking if you’re all right, calling you “dear” instead of “honey.” And they compliment you, not on your clothes, but on your damned Rollator! “How lucky you are to have such a nice one, dear. It’s such a godsend, isn’t it?”
Yeah, sure . . . if you’re talking about the Roman god of meanness and sarcasm.
In all fairness, under the circumstances, I don’t know what I’d do without it. But I wouldn’t need the friggin’ thing if I didn’t have all this other sh*t to deal with. Like reaching stuff. I was never tall to begin with, and a certain amount of shrinkage is normal as you — oh, how I hate this word! — age. But the spinal fusions took away another couple of inches, so now I’d probably qualify to play one of the Munchkins in a remake of The Wizard of Oz, if I could learn to do the squeaky voice thing. And if it weren’t so politically incorrect.
But there’s an up-side to having such a short body: I can once more touch my toes without bending my steel-and-titanium knees. Though why I would want to, I can’t imagine, because I’m not at all sure I could straighten up again.
By the way, have you ever tried to toss a blanket across a queen-size bed with arms and shoulders that don’t work properly? It travels about three inches before falling onto the bed in a heap; then you have to make a dozen trips around the bed to straighten it out, and when it’s finally lying flat, you notice that it’s eight inches longer on one side, so that’s another few trips to get it even. By this time, of course, you’re ready to give it up and sleep on the couch with a pillow and that throw that’s just long enough to cover either your toes or your shoulders, but not both.
And the fridge. Why is everything you need in the back, usually behind that gallon jug of milk on the shelf that’s just a teensy bit too high, so once you get the jug out and plunk it down on the floor, you can’t possibly lift it back up and onto the shelf again? Oh, and the laundry machines, where you practically have to climb in head-first in order to reach that last pair of underwear? What is it with these appliance designers? Do they live in a world populated by giraffes?
Speaking of which, would someone please find out when the standard inseam on “petite” women’s pants was deemed to be 28 inches? Not funny, people!
But what is funny — and incredibly so — is the sight of me trying to climb up into my son’s big-ass truck. He has a nice, normal car too; but it’s usually parked behind the truck, so it’s easier . . . Right. Easier for him, maybe. Or maybe he just gets a kick out of seeing his little old mother trying to reach the grab handle, then figure out which foot to put up on the little step, then haul myself up . . . well, that’s when he takes pity and steps in to give me a boost. Bless his heart.
I have to admit, that whole scene is kind of hilarious. And in order to navigate these “golden years,” a sense of humor is an absolute necessity.
Right up there with a Rollator.
Just sayin’ . . .
Brendochka
1/14/24
