HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VINCENT

I’ve decided to forestall any further birthdays. I’m calling a time out, at least for a little while. Its not that I dislike the celebration, cake and ice cream suits me just fine, but the thought of blowing out all those damn candles really freaks me out. Honestly, I’m not obsessed with germs, no hand sanitizer in my house, but can you just picture all those microbes floating over the cream cheese icing, making a bee line straight for the confectionary flower I had marked as my own?

The only smart thing to do is to pick another’s birthday and celebrate. Look at the benefits; you can still have the cake and ice cream, but without the candles, no presents need be opened, you don’t run the risk of re-gifting gone a-muck, and if it is a little belated no great loss, who’s going to complain?

I think a topical series might be fun. Let’s see, maybe we could start with dead poets. If it’s good enough for a movie script it should be good enough for my birthday party. We could move on to mad scientists. There are a few that could use a little celebrating, like Wilhelm Reich; Eisenhower’s secret ally against the aliens. Willy lived not far from here and his force field is still felt to this day but I will leave that for another time; it's dark outside and I’m not in the mood for any late night visitors. After we finish with the scientists we could move on to movie stars. They are always good for a party, dead or alive. Last but not least, I think we could finish up with a few authors. Maine is home to a few, some stranger than others. My friend, Caroline, makes a great corn chowder, (I have her family recipe). I bet I could get her to celebrate with us; she might even bring the militia. What’s a party without some target practice?

OK, so it’s settled - dead poets first. The power went out the other day and I had to scurry around for candles which made me think of one of my favorite poems, this little quatrain titled “First Fig”.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

In a remarkable moment of serendipity I discovered it was Vincent’s birthday, an omen for sure. Mind you I didn’t know Vincent but she would appreciate my familiarity. With one foot on each side of the aisle she preferred Vincent over Edna. She was that kind of gal. Can't say as I blame her. Vincent is the poetic voice of eternal youth, feminine revolt and liberation, potent sensitivity and suggestiveness all wrapped up in one little package. I have a friend who reminds me of Vincent. Sammie seems just the part, a pixie playing Tinkerbell to my Peter Pan. Even her name is fantasy; it hides the girl behind the fiction of her name. She seems to be saying:

"I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day."

Happy Birthday, Vincent. Edna St. Vincent Millay February 22.

MY REAL AGE

Another birthday come and gone and I got to thinking, how old am I? I mean, I know how old I am, but how old am I really. Someone once asked “Would you know how old you are if you didn’t know how old you were?” My answer has always been "29" but my wife constantly disabuses of me of that delusion. I have gone through life whistling past the grave yard thinking I will beat the odds. So I finally found the courage to take the Real Age Test. Harking back to my college days I thought it might be a good idea to use Cliff Notes to bone up for the exam. Back then I was the master of pulling “all niters”. I foolishly thought a quick review would make up for all these years of decadence. After all, the site promised to help me live life to the youngest. No such luck.

I promised myself I would be honest, no cheating, at least not anything I could be held accountable for if I was compelled to share the results with my wife. We don’t see eye to eye on anything related to diet and exercise. She is a nutrition-nazi who would gladly trade me for a new treadmill. I pointed my browser to the real age site, kept my fingers crossed, and proceeded to take THE TEST.

After a false start, (there goes the no cheating promise) I clicked away. The folks at Real Age were not impressed, deciding I was leading a challenging life and was sure to expire sooner rather than later. Always one to look for the silver lining in any cloud I proceeded to experiment with some of the questions. With the interactive features of the test I was able to “manage” my answers, but could I squeeze out a few more years? With fingers crossed, to absolve me of the no cheating promise I had foolishly made, I “adjusted” some of my answers to see how many extra years I could con out of the mad scientists who devised this monstrosity.

My first adjustment was a failure; eating less doesn’t seem to be an option, at least not a very rewarding one, a pick up of only five months; hardly worth it. After a few more poor results I finally hit pay dirt - I discovered I don’t drink enough. Lo and behold, drinking more, much more in my case, would only cost me three months! I will gladly give up those three months for a few more bottles of cabernet.

Not wanting to waste another day I poured a tumbler of just what the doctor ordered and tried to find another site, one that would be more friendly, one whose results I could share with my wife. The folks at the search engine poodwaddle came up with just the place I was looking for. I’m not including the link as I need to keep this to myself for confidentiality purposes, I can’t chance a digital trail, but I can report this website’s results were just what I was searching for – 22 years better to be exact. Not wanting to gloat, I decided to take a subtle approach and taped the printed results to the aforementioned treadmill.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when my wife sees that note but I won’t be around, I’m heading out to the store to meet my friends, Ben & Jerry. I’ll save the rest of the cab bottle for later. I might need it.

STRAY SHOPPIING CARTS

What a day! What started as a cerebral day commemorating Galileo’s 400th birthday, complete with cake, quickly devolved into trash talk complete with a stunning analysis of the Niagara Falls River Gorge vandalism super site. Wait, more on that later.

We figured Rodney Dangerfield probably had Galileo in mind when he famously said, “I don’t get no respect”. The poor guy had made it through the inquisition, only to have his mistress marry his best friend, and his daughters fled to safety in a nearby convent. Not to let Galileo’s memory escape us and his birthday to pass unrecognized we decided a celebration in his honor would be appropriate. We even exchanged gifts. It is the middle of winter in Maine and not much happens at Well Sweep Farm this time of year so we have to be a little inventive.

When it came time to open my present, given to me by my daughter-in-law, all were thrilled to see I had been the recipient of the much sought after definitive guide THE STRAY SHOPPING CARTS OF EASTERN NORTH AMERICA.
My daughter-in-law knows me all too well and she rightly guessed I would want to curl up by the fire and immerse myself in this esoteric study of stray shopping carts, patiently waiting for the snow to clear so I could drag my poor wife (she’s a saint) along to scout out some of the many locations highlighted in the field guide.

The authors claim that what many people may simply see as a sign of urban blight is actually an indicator of consumer society gone too far. This seminal book contains a complete classification system with numerous photographs to aid in identification. This handsome book will rest right next to my dog-eared Field Guide to North American Birds, ready for my next outing.

One can only hope there is money in the freshly minted stimulus plan earmarked for The Niagara Gorge clean up project. You will have to buy your own copy to fully appreciate the beauty of this; it’s available on Amazon, like everything else in the world.

With all the empty houses dotting the land as a result of foreclosures it doesn’t seem as if volunteers for Habitat for Humanity would be much in demand so if I can convince my wife to accompany me we may do our part by joining in the Niagara project. Based on the reception I received from my wife when I suggested this field trip I may have to wait for a second round of financing from Congress if they consider the plight of stray plastic bags, discarded tires, and stray traffic cones. I’m a little disappointed as I always wanted to see Niagara Falls.

GOD LIKE

A friend of mine, a highly accomplished and widely collected artist, offered me the opportunity to work as his understudy. It didn’t last long, I shook too much. One day I joined him in his studio as he was finishing a 50” X 50” painting, destined to be sent to his New York City gallery, when he turned to me and said, “Take the controls”. It reminded me of my brief stint at flying lessons. I was fine with the pilot safely ensconced beside me with a hand on the tiller but when it came time to solo I looked for the parachute.

The artist, who shall remain nameless for fear of alienating his collectors, asked me to paint the last remaining, and brightest star in the nearly finished work of art. I screwed up my courage, and with the aid of a painting stick to steady my hand, (which did absolutely no good by the way) proceeded to stare at the appointed spot where the star was to appear. After what seemed like an eternity (I was creating the firmament after all) my hand steadied enough to give it a go.

False start. My arm, supported by the painting stick, didn’t move. I couldn’t quite reach the canvas. An invisible string attached to my elbow kept my brush, awash with starlight, a safe distance from the canvas. One more deep breath and I let it rip. A splash of color, just where God intended that star to shine, appeared on the canvas. To be honest, I think I had closed my eyes for fear of painting a comet where none should be visible.

Job well done, the painting was shipped off to the gallery and now hangs in a home I will never visit but a part of me resides there, lighting up the evening sky, and shining its grace on that lucky individual. It has been said you never know what it is like to be someone until you walk in their shoes. Now I know how God must have felt as he dabbed the sky with the points of light that guide us through life.

Happy birthday Galileo.

Tom Daschle's Jiffy Lube endorsement

Dear Tom:

It's no wonder you needed a car and driver. If you "invested" in a new car we might not need the auto bailout. You should have plenty of time on your hands to shop for a new car now that you have withdrawn your name from consideration.

Memo to Tom Daschle - Its called a form 1040

Once again it looks like ethics has taken a backseat to the "old boy network", or maybe Tom just didn't get the President's ethics memo.