Category Archives: nostalgia

Just With My Looks, I Could Have Won

Despite odds and favorites, endorsements and hype, in sporting events ya just never know. In the Olympic opening ceremonies, for example, the U.S. did not medal during the Parade of Nations. Sartorial dark horses Tonga, Kazakhstan, and Andorra (a “landlocked microstate in southwestern Europe”[1]) beat the literal pants off Ireland, Germany, Italy, and the US. That’s with Ralph Lauren et al. hurling unimaginable coin and muscle at it. Better luck next time, soopertailors!

All manner of factors can throw athletes off their game. Weird uniforms, weird weather, weird slogans (Hot. Cool. You.  Huh?), old injuries, new injuries, the incessant clanging of the cowbell slopeside…not to mention Olympic pressure. I for one couldn’t do a giant slalom in front of a single, napping four-year-old. Flop sweat would soak my snowsuit, which would not be a stylin’ hipster snowsuit, but an old beater poofy one (see “weird uniforms” above). Sounds like the making of a terrific nightmare. Don’t worry, the Olympic Committees have enough on their plates with the Junior Olympics, Paralympics, the Senior Games…there will be no Doughy Unfit Sloblympics. Reality TV has that covered, if inadvertently.

The Sochi games were, in a word, fabulous. The opening ceremony was as good as Athens and Vancouver and better than Beijing or London. Kudos, komrades! The $51B price tag, higher than all prior Winter Olympics combined, was naughty but, man, artfully spent. The venues were knockout, the Caucuses backdrop spectacular. If you were lucky enough to see the nighttime bird’s-eye view of the Olympic Village on a high-def TV:  Prekrasno!

Another word: incredible. The skaters’ costumes were better than ever, due in part to advances in adhesives, faceted sparklers, and stretch netting. Velikalepno! The jumps, lifts, and spins (twizzles!): umopotressauschee. The women’s biathlon, wherein women ski uphill with guns, their buff, eurochick bodies rocking gorgeously engineered outdoor wear: totally Bond! The commentators’ near-hysterical coverage during the men’s biathlon: hilariously stirring! The medals? Elegant! Mary Carillo’s cultural vignettes? Captivating! We even dug the ads, from Cadillac’s In America, We Work Hard (“N’est-ce pas?”) to the endlessly repeated Chevy Cruze one (the pained expressions of the car music-haters never grew old) to P&G’s teary series saluting athletes’ mothers. Yo, where’s the fathers’ tribute? Pony up next time, WD-40.

Exciting. Now I hates change (less cowbell? Nyet!), but I suspect that newly added sports grabbed today’s athletes and viewers more than winter’s curling (a popular drinking sport…150 years ago?) or summer’s gymnastics stick-and-ball thing (made sense in… ancient Greece?) New winter additions such as parallel slalom, ski halfpipe, snowboardcross, chick ski jump,and luge team relay engaged the nutters of many nations both on the slopes and off. Zdorovo!

Magical. It seemed nothing could ruin the Olympics for viewers: neither the barrage of pre-game negative press, nor too-warm snow conditions (ruinous to top skiers who didn’t medal), nor worrisome developments in Ukraine, nor an Olympic ring that didn’t open (“Keep going, Vladimir…four—eet’s enough—go!”), nor Johnny Weir’s distracting accoutrements, nor even dumb push notifications and moronic newspeople announcing who’d won before we got to watch it at night. Stoic Putin never devolved into the out-of-control rootin’ tootin’ Pootin I’d hoped for, but he did crack the occasional smile as fellow Russkies went bonkers around him.

Full-on crazy. The Russians did go nuts. So did everyone else. Everyone went wild. People were yelling and texting and jumping up and down around the globe, astonished by the feats of these magnificent young gods and goddesses. Whether it was a nailbiter of a hockey game, a mindbender of a halfpipe trick, a heart attacker of a downhill ski race, an eye-shutter of a skeleton run, or a jawdropper of a figure skating routine by—gasp—a tiny teenager, the fans went wild. What’s more fun than that? All the earthly peoples clapping and crying and grinning and screaming Wow! in 6,000 different languages, including Russian (Ogo! Or if you prefer: Va-ooh!). No really: what’s better than that?

Unforgettable. Who could forget the incredible wins and losses, the moments of jubilance and of crushing defeat after years and years of training? Competitors holding hands, or throwing themselves on the ice, off the podium, into the arms of loved ones…too many to list. I just hope you saw them, along with the breathtaking closing ceremonies. With some systems, you can view the Sochi games over and over. I’ll see you tube-side…knitting and weeping, admiring the determined faces and ripped bodies of the brave, beautiful YPs of all the Lands. Good bawling, and good day.

Quote That Took The Gold

Olympic halfpipe champion Iouri “iPod” Podladtchikov on if he could have beaten Shaun White without YOLO, iPod’s insane signature rotational flip: “Yes. Just with my looks, I could have won.”

Bring Awn the Brawn

brawny manMaybe it’s the Olympics, but brawn has been on our brains.

The Brawny Man commercials delighted women some years back.  You can see why. Part Northern Exposure, part Alan Alda, and part bodice ripper, the flannel-wearing, hilariously empathetic—yet manful—Brawny Man embodies a delicious casserole of male traits that doesn’t exist in real life. The writers worked a paper towel into every episode. The series was called “Innocent Escapes.”  A rural tonic for modern tymes.

Santa and Me

Santy Claus, Cyn and me poss. 1989…a really long time ago. This was the official shot you got in SantaLand at Macy’s Herald Square, avec “frame.” If you’ve never read David Sedaris’ Holidays on Ice, which includes his stint as an elf there, it’s a heartwarming holiday classic not to be missed.

This guy clearly wasn’t “Santa Santa” (read the book). I think he was more like “Hungover Santa” or “This Is My Lucky Day So Why Ain’t I Smiling Santa.” “Busted Femur Santa?”He may have been concentrating on the cameras or sensors in his beard.

I Unheart Candy Crush

candy crushMy niece was playing Candy Crush Saga and wouldn’t stop to explain how it works (Warning #1), so one terrible day I downloaded it.

With a Candy Land-ish footpath, sparkly explosions (of candy!), laudatory commentary in a soothing male voice (“Dee-licious!”), and otherworldly digital music that eats your brain, this malefic tease was designed by a bad person or evil entity to cripple mankind, likely the same devil who invented off-label opiate use.

After four days on level 23, lured there by e-z prior levels, I became admittedly obsessed (“Must. Crack. The. Code.”). With a ferocity normally reserved for those avenging the injury or shaming of a family member, I was determined to subjugate 23. But I noticed that while I did not want to stop, I was not actually enjoying playing. I was grinding my teeth and sweating and nervously checking the clock (10:30…11:00…midnight, uh-oh).  I YouTubed how to to win. There were crazed nutters in there that actually purchase tools (Lollipop Hammer, Coconut Wheel, Bomb Cooler, what?)  and time to keep going in a single game, courtesy of exploitative game mechanics. Too bad you can’t buy real time. The time you wasted playing.

I finally muscled through (“Candy crushhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”) and whistled, That’s it — I’m done. Later I realized I had won on my phone. But not on my iPad, where I was still stuck on 23. So that’s where Sunday’s “extra hour of sleep” went.

Don’t do it.*  There are five HUNDRED levels and you will be trapped behind the candy curtain foreverrrr.

*Bet you didn’t know Sammy Davis. Jr. sang that theme song. Just one of many fakts you’ll learn if you don’t fritter away your life playing Candy Crush.

Come to Vermont…Post-Peak

later foliageWe’ve saved a few colored leaves for you, have oxygen in ample supply, and our inns and B&Bs with fireplaces wait to cozy you up now that the full-throttle foliage traffic has passed. Our book stores are not chains and our yard sales boast the prices of yesteryear.

Learn about our human leaf forecaster here. And while Vermont’s colors may not be at peak, I can assure you that her nutters are.

If You Are Spending Memorial Day Alone

parade route

Too early even for the convertibles to be lining up.

…don’t feel bad. Just remember a past good one. I remember a party rife with Vermont nutters.

This photo of the parade route I took before work when I was feeling sorry for myself. But then, I rather enjoyed the holiday alone after work, much as I’d like to have cheered on the vets.

I hope yours was a good parade, a good party, a good potato salad, and a good trip to the cemetery. Don’t forget to sing.

I Love Old Shit

Just the right height, baby.And by sh** I mean “things.” I like the color of them, their materials, engineering and, occasionally, smell.

This gem I got at the FREE table at the dump.  I call it my Gentlewoman’s Plunger—small and delicate enough for Lady.

With a clogged sink of late, I’d have paid yard sale top dollar—if only to buy a usable item headed for landfill that’s not yet been in a toilet. I hope.

Here’s some more old sh** I like:

How to serve crudites, a la 1957.

Flip side of trivet. From Taiwan, by way of…Mt. Vernon!

L’il avacado beauty.

Spring Fever: Spring Sprang Sprung

We’re all just daffy.

Vermonters are duped by none of spring’s standard heralds:  the calendar, the lusty hammering of the male woodpecker, or flower bulbs emerging.  The 2013 groundhog’s malfeasance in violation of the public trust was widely rebuked, his handlers penalized, justice served—and Vermont stood solidly behind that decision—but we know better. We don’t shelve our snow tires ’til deep into the month even when it’s 75 degrees mid-month.

It’s not just us enduring global weirding.  Motorists in MA were doing 360s on I-91 in many inches of ice balls pouring from the sky last week, and in NY there were tree-felling microbursts. In two recent trips to the Carolinas, I failed to witness the Carolina blue skies. They were more like Carolina Pre-owned Off-White Skies, from Sears.

Carolina Off-white.

Carolina Off-white.

Yet the return of spring is promised by the reappearance of air freshener (canned fresh air!) named Spring Breeze. They must be canning it elsewhere because the spring breezes in my area smell exactly like the tons of fertilizer trucked into a nearby corn field.  Brings tears to your eyes, and not in the puppy-sleeping-in-a-meatloaf-pan kind of way, more in the my-eyeballs-are-boinin’-up way. I hope the canned Spring Breeze smell better than ours, and than Yankee Candle’s  “Country Linens,” which smells like you hosed the place down with bleach.  They should call it “Country Clorox.”  If there’s anything more fun than naming candle scents, nail polish colors, or ski trails, I don’t know what that is.

Tappin' it old school.

Tappin’ it old school.

Due to travel screwed up by the [nice people] at Expedia.com, I am behind in local news. I’m guessing mud season was a banner year for sap, and for the sapsuckers far and wide who guzzle the glorious maple nectar of the Land. It’s nice when nature smiles on you for a change, along with the elusive orb that had Vermonters asking all winter, “Where’s that big yellow thing usta be in the sky?”

Well, Spring Fever is definitely in the air. It’s pretty much Antics City as cloudy skies haven’t stopped woodpeckers from advertising for dates, squirrels from chasing each other around their condos, and children’s eyes from swapping out the blackboard for the window. Reminds me of when the Lorris twins moved to town in the 70s. The girl was a law- (and Safety Patrol-) abiding citizen; her brother anything but.  On a spring day, we had for 8th grade English one of education’s most sad combinations: a timid substitute teacher. Naturally, we seized our advantage. Someone’s bright idea was to jump out the windows and make a run for it. They should call it Spring Idiocy.

To facilitate our escape, one Lorris twin graciously offered to “create a diversion.” We weren’t sure what that meant, but it became evident when, five minutes into class while Miz Timorous struggled through roll call, said twin suddenly howled, waved his arms wildly, then sprinted out of the room. Miz Tim, terrified, sprang after him while the rest of us made a break for it out the windows.  We made the two-foot drop to the grass and ran full-throttle to the tennis courts where we shrugged. “OK, we’re sprung. What now?” We had no plan, you see. We ended up back in the classroom with no authority the wiser (it was the 70s) and a nice little shenanigan under our belt.

In closing, to put a spring in my girlfriends’ steps, a longtime male friend had this to say just last week: “What’s the appeal of 35 year-olds? To me, there is nothing sexier than a woman our age that looks good.” I adore him because, I assure you, “our age” is more than a couple years above 35. They should call it “old.” Oh wait, they do.

You don’t have to take my advice—you rarely do—but consider this:  roll around half-naked in the sun, huff spring breezes, feel good about your age, get the fever, have a plan, execute it, do a shenanigan, and call it a (good) day.

Vermont Spring Bumper Stickers:

Gone Muddin’

Got Mud?

My Dog for Mayor

If We Ignore The Environment, It Just May Go Away.

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land. Now Stay on Your Land.

White Squirrel Car Wash

white squirrel

McLoving rural America

When a place is known for something, people name their businesses after it. So everything in town is called the [What This Place Is Known For] Laundromat, the [What This Place Is Known For] Grill, the [What This Place Is Known For] Shoe Repair. The confusion — and occasional beauty — of that is you say to your husband, “Honey, I’m going down to the White Squirrel,” and he thinks you mean the dry cleaners, when in fact you’re meeting Sheila at the bar for a quick pop.

Brevard, NC, is known for its white squirrels, reportedly escaped from a carnival in the 1940s.

Catch you at the White Squirrel.

The Mullet is Making a Comeback

mullet

Well, business in front when you have a SHIRT on.

The mullet goes back to the 60s. But that nascent coiff wasn’t the x-treme Kentucky Waterfall the mullet (d)evolved into. No, the Tennessee Tophat, Ape Drape, Missouri Compromise, Camaro Cut, Louisiana Purchase, Sho-long, Mississippi Mudflap, or what we in Vermont like to call the Canadian Passport reached its perfected plumage potential — fueled for take-off by Bono and MacGyver and adapted by NASCAR trendsters into the sooperhot, pants-dropping fem-mullet — in the 1980s. When fashion did things it had never done before and hopefully will never do again. Business in the front, party in the back…right on.

As People of Walmart have proven, the mullet is making a comeback.

[April Fools’.]