Stamps, approval of

On Aug. 19 the United States Postal Service released stamps commemorating five Pixar animated features; and I say bully for them. They are, in alphabetical order: Cars, Ratatouille, Toy Story, Up and WALL-E. Unless the USPS gets on the stick immediately, and I mean NOW, and release the next five my disappointment, on a scale of one to ten, wouldn’t cover it. My three favorite Pixar’s are, in alphabetical order: Finding Nemo, Monster’s Inc. (“Kitty!”) and The Incredibles. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the five already honored but I still want to know just who those people are who sat around that table-of-decision(s) and made the choices.

Further to this, who decided what to depict on each one? This would, of course, be an artistic decision and therefore none of my business but as to the stamps themselves, is it totally a marketing decision? That is, the latest movies spread the lard at a higher level (even though, in my opinion, not all that fairly) to maximize profits?

Fear not, I have an insider on the hunt for answers. He/she had better provide some soon; the hell-to-pay meter is running.

A Song for Irene

You rose from out a tropic sea,
Your rating at an apogee.
A dire 4 cast,
Diminished, passed;
But not the muse I thought you’d be.

mac & cheese & jeter & poetry

Sitting on the couch thinking about macaroni and cheese (perhaps embellished with a couple of sliced Hebrew National hotdogs), watching the Yankee/Twins game and reading a slim book of poetry called Heroes and Householders by Steve Turtell between innings. Some of his poems are good and they make me jealous because I’ve never been sentimental enough or mad enough to write poetry. I’m good at limericks because the form pleases me; it’s restrictive and you have to count the syllables for it to work. Having your mind in the gutter helps too, for that’s what limericks are (or are supposed to be): smut in rhyme and as insulting as possible. Watching baseball is easy; poetry is hard. Good (or bad) stuff on the diamond is always replayed over and over so, even with bathroom breaks, you don’t miss a thing and, anyway, there’s always a nice recap in the morning paper.

Although these poems should probably be dipped into randomly I read them chronologically, first to last. “Great heroes and warriors perform their deeds” is the first line of the first poem (about a mundane, but very sharp, kitchen knife; “Lead me by the tongue to heaven” the last line of the last (it’s about pears, smut brain). In between there is a lot of deep thoughts about a lot of other stuff—some much too personal for my shallow persona. Sometimes I’m not sure I’m getting them and there are no replays to corroborate first impressions. In the meantime Derek Jeter cements his place in sports history and I am more than pleased to bear witness. Driven by forceful gusts of wind, heavy rain is testing the resiliency of the window glass. The Friday-difficult New York Times crossword is laughing at me with empty squared teeth. The water is on for the mac and cheese; perhaps a dash of pesto to jazz up the Kraft?

Mermen do exist

This is a collage by Adam W. Woomer and is made up solely of layer after layer of glue and cut paper (no paint has been applied). I think it’s festive and pretty cool despite the semi-androgynous look caused by the flowing yellow hair, and I think there is more than a vestige of peebstuff lurking somewhere in there. My sister has mentioned in the past that she thinks I do have a certain merman-ish aspect and I’m not one to dispute that since I feel amazingly (stupidly?) unafraid and at home in the ocean and, over the last 50 years or so, have experienced some pretty rough seas without much to protect myself other than a wet suit, Scuba gear, a snorkel, a spear gun, an abalone knife, water skis (not all of these at once—mix and match), and/or just swimming beyond the surf line fetchingly draped in Speedos of various hues. I’m not the merman I used to be but I can still hold my breath for an uncommonly long time and still love being immersed in water, be it the dangerous salty sea or a freshwater pool lined decoratively with tile sunflowers. More a manatee than a dolphin these days but I can wallow with the best of them.

Gangrenous Football

This is Rex Ryan. He is a bully and a blowhard. He is also the coach of the New York Jets; one of two New York teams that have the arrogance to play all of their home games in New Jersey but somehow think 23 miles away is close enough. But that’s not my bitch herein. This is: Now that all of the brouhaha over the negotiations between owners and players, millionaires all, is done with and the teams are gathering for pre-season conditioning and practice despite a few un-wrapped up individual player contracts, the media posturing has begun.

The Jets are the worst and seem to encourage braggadocio and hyperbole (two of my favorite words) and therefore set an example for our “impressionable” youth that bragging and bullying and carrying concealed weapons is admirable. More than any other sport, “manliness” seems to be the criteria in football and butting your thick skull into someone who is defenseless, although ostensibly abhorred, is actually looked upon with favor (as long as this is not said out loud in front of someone capable of getting it into print). The very fact that Rex Ryan has become a head coach proves the point. 1. Bully. 2. Arrogant. 3. Loud mouth 4. Hypocrite.

This buys into what is perceived as the mindset of the “normal” football fan. Even though I like the idea that the normal football fan is more appreciative of some of the spectacular talent in the NFL; those guys who play the game with brilliance without the need for physical “cheating” to get ahead, but I’m afraid I’m being a bit naïve about this. Even some of the more gentle souls I know just can’t seem to get enough of an occasional train wreck on a football field.

Anyway, as Rex Ryan and the NY Jets gear up again with media headlines following them around with public relations words like “laden with expectations” and “teeming with enthusiasm” and “brimming with confidence,” while the underbelly of “bullying,” “swaggering,” “boastful” and “arrogant” more truthfully illustrate the reality.

I have four words for the Jets: Tom Brady - Peyton Manning. The Jets are known as “Gang Green” which is, of course, a play on the word “gangrene” but I’ve never really understood the application (since I associate it with rotting flesh) but, whatever, I really am looking forward to how they deal with teams that really do have winning schmaltz but don’t require any shrieking or howling to prove it.