April, Come She Will

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For all the malaise of the Internet, it’s still like having a library – a really big library – on your desk or, for those who prefer smaller boxes, in your palm. Otherwise how could I look up some Chaucer on the subject of April, just like that?

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour

That is to say, April showers relieve March dryness and bring forth flowers, if not May flowers exactly. A fair amount of rain fell today, though in northern Illinois at least, March wasn’t particularly dry.

I’ve had little regard for April Fools Day over the years, probably a legacy of the idiotic and occasionally cruel uses schoolkids had, in my experience, for the day. The Comics Curmudgeon touches on that very thing today in reviewing Dennis the Menace and Blondie.

“Is there any ‘holiday’ more vile and unpleasant than April Fool’s Day, which is mostly marked by ‘pranks’ perpetrated by the least funny people alive?” Josh Fruhlinger writes. “These tricks generally take one of two very simple forms, as illustrated neatly in these two strips: making someone believe that something bad is happening when it really isn’t, or making someone believe something good is happening when it really isn’t. Does anyone enjoy either? I’m going to say no.”

Mr. Dithers, one of the pranksters, is prominent in today’s Blondie. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated how fat he is, a lingering attribute (I assume) from the Hoover-era origins of the strip, when fat meant prosperous. That association has been decoupled in the many decades since. Chalk it up to the wide introduction of corn syrup to the American diet, so that a wider class of people can be wider themselves.

Ashes to Ashes, Paw Prints to Paw Prints

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Maundy Thursday has come around again, which seems like a good time to knock off posting until Easter Monday, which also happens this year to be April Fools’, known for its pranks and hoaxes. But really, isn’t every day a day for hoaxes in our time?

Or at least absurd assertions. From Wired yesterday: “A non-exhaustive list of things that are getting blamed for the bridge collapse on Telegram and X include President Biden, Hamas, ISIS, P. Diddy, Nickelodeon, India, former president Barack Obama, Islam, aliens, Sri Lanka, the World Economic Forum, the United Nations, Wokeness, Ukraine, foreign aid, the CIA, Jewish people, Israel, Russia, China, Iran, Covid vaccines, DEI, immigrants, Black people, and lockdowns.”

A pleasant Easter to all. Easter is the last day of March this year. Twenty-seven years ago, it was March 30, which put Maundy Thursday on March 27, 1997, which is a date with some resonance for us: we found out we were going to be parents.

Both daughters were in town at the same time for a few days earlier this month. It was unfortunately the same week that Payton died, though the visits were scheduled well before that happened.

Still, we could all enjoy dinner together two evenings (at home, and out the next day at a familiar Korean barbecue joint) and share our recollections of the dog, among other things.

We received the dog’s ashes this week, along with a paw print. I didn’t know memorial paw prints were a thing, but it seems they are.

Truth was, she could be prickly. But once you knew that, you could have fun with it. One way to get a rise was to slowly approach her food. In this video, about a month before her death, I told her, “I’m coming for your food,” but naturally no language other than body language was necessary.

She was already having trouble walking then – the hind legs were the first to fail her – and spent much of her time in our living room, among towels to catch her pee when she couldn’t quite get up to go to the door, and didn’t bother to tell us that by yapping, in which case we could help her go outside. Often enough, of course, she’d miss the towels. We didn’t care much. It was still good to have her around at all.

Gilligan!

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The video that captured the ramming and collapse of the Francis Scott Key Bridge has a morbid fascination, and you don’t even have to rubberneck to see it. I watched it a few times this morning, marveling at how what looked like a tap – but of course was tons of mass colliding with the structure – could bring the whole thing down so fast.

Then again, we’ve all had similar experiences on a (fortunately) smaller scale. One time I brushed ever so lightly against a stack of dishes drying in the rack, and much of the stack lost its cohesion in a moment, with the dishes suddenly rearranging themselves in a clatter, a handful tumbling to the sink and the floor, though I don’t remember that any broke.

I was also reminded of something I’ve written about before, some comedy about a previous (1989) shipwreck.

“About a week after the [Exxon Valdez] spill, I went to the Second City comedy revue… and they did a 15-second skit about it, a to-the-point gag.

“Silhouetted on the stage was a fellow standing behind a large ship’s wheel. From offstage, an announcer said something like, ‘And now, what really happened on the Exxon Valdez…’ Pause. Then the stage lights went up, reveling a familiar red shirt and white sailor’s cap on the fellow at the wheel, who was fumbling with it. At the same instant, a familiar voice boomed from offstage, startling the fellow: ‘GILLIGAN!’ the Skipper bellowed.”

If Second City had a mind to, they could do exactly the same sketch this weekend, only changing the line to “what really happened to the Key Bridge in Baltimore.” It would be in bad taste, since it looks like six men lost their lives in the collapse, but death doesn’t always nix comedy. In fact, often not. For example in ’86, NASA = Need Another Seven Astronauts.

Would many in their audience miss the Gilligan reference due to their relatively tender age? Maybe, but Gilligan is better remembered than a lot of ’60s TV characters. As an enduring stock character, the bumbling moron, he participates in something bigger than mere TV entertainment. Something that probably goes back a lot further even than Plautus, to the most rudimentary forms of pratfall entertainment among our remote ancestors.

Deer Grove Ahead of the Greening

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Not long ago, on one of the warmish days we had before the more recent chilly run, we made our way back to Deer Grove Forest Preserve in Palatine, one of the many such green spaces in the northwest suburbs. Except it hadn’t greened yet. The last time we were there, during the pandemic spring of 2020, it was full spring and lush green.

Still, there’s a certain charm to the slumbering brown-gray earth, provided the air isn’t that cold and the paths are fairly dry. Had a good walk.Deer Grove Forest Preserve

Trees before budding. It won’t be long.Deer Grove Forest Preserve Deer Grove Forest Preserve

Grassland waiting to green up. That will come even sooner.Deer Grove Forest Preserve

Recent rains – including much of yesterday – are hastening things along. I cracked the window last night to listen to the micro-splash rhythm of the falling rain, but didn’t leave it open too long, as cold air snuck in along with the pleasurable sounds.

The Odds

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A random thought today: Do the Irish bookies take bets on when and which company will be indicted next for antitrust violations? One table of odds for the U.S. and a different one for the European Union?

Not sure why I thought of that. Just one of those passing notions.

Gone the Way of Columbia Wearing a Phrygian Cap

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A few years ago, a meme about Presidents Day came to my attention. The text: Think you should have Presidents’ Day off work? Name this man.

The image was that of Warren Harding. For me, that was easy. Maybe not so much for a lot of people, though I suspect no survey about President Harding’s enduring fame has ever been done.

A better obscure president for the meme would have been, say, James Garfield or Rutherford B. Hayes or Benjamin Harrison, since Gilded Age chief executives tend to merge into a single hazy gray-bearded visage, except of course for the moustachio’d rotundness of Chester A. Arthur and Grover Cleveland.

Fame wears thin. That came to mind this time last year at the Harding library and museum in Marion, Ohio. Among a number of other interesting artifacts, the museum posted newspaper reactions to the president’s unexpected death on August 2, 1923.Warren G Harding death editorial cartoons Posted in Marion, Ohiov Warren G Harding death editorial cartoons Posted in Marion, Ohio Warren G Harding death editorial cartoons Posted in Marion, Ohio Warren G Harding death editorial cartoons Posted in Marion, Ohio

Note that Columbia is wearing a Phrygian cap. Whatever happened to Phrygian caps? Whatever happened to Columbia in editorial cartoons? They just faded away. Something like the memory of Harding, so vivid once upon a time.

Newspaper editorial cartoons don’t necessarily capture public sentiment, but I understand Harding was a popular president in his lifetime. In terms of reputation, then, he got out while he still had a good one. Not long after, the scandals of his administration came to light, along with allegations of an illegitimate daughter (which were true). A hundred years later, he’s obscure enough to meme-ify, except among historians, who don’t like him.

Nephi on the Sidewalk

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Today I’m reminded of the old joke whose punchline is, “He called me from Salt Lake City.” If you know it, you know it, but enough to say that Mormonism is the crux of that joke.

We took a walk around a northwest suburban pond late this afternoon, a familiar place, but there was unfamiliar writing on one of the many stretches of sidewalk.

Illustration to the left.

3 Nephi 11:14? That didn’t sound familiar. Maybe a book in the Douay version I don’t know about? I’ve never been able to remember all of its distinctions from the KJB. I forgot about my passing, and erroneous, thought until I downloaded the pictures later. That was the time to look it up. It’s from the Book of Mormon.

That’s a first in my experience, Mormon graffiti.

Somehow the Bernie Bros Missed This One

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A few weeks ago, I went again to Ollie’s, whose appeal is the randomness of its merchandise, and there he was, among the packaged foods and housewares and small appliances and furniture and bric-a-brac, no other stuffed politicos around, no tag or bar code.

“This the funniest thing I’ve seen all day,” I said to the clerk. “How much?”

I was only kidding. It was the funniest thing I’d seen all week, maybe all month. He spent a minute or so tapping into a laptop near the register, but soon gave up the chase. “How about $3.99?” he said.

Sold.

A product of Fuzzu, a Vermont designer of pet toys. I’d say maker, but for Bernie at least that occurred in China. Bernie isn’t alone — well, he was when I found him, but had he been separated, a la Toy Story, from the rest of the Fuzzu stable? Joe, Kamala, Donald, Mike, Hillary, Bill and Rootin’ Tootin’ Putin.

Mike? The former Mayor Bloomberg, it seems, since on his back is “Pop Cop.”

Now Bernie joins my small collection of presidential ephemera: postcards, a few buttons, my Franklin Pierce bobblehead and William Henry Harrison Pez dispenser and Eugene V. Debs ribbon. My definition of presidential is pretty broad, and certainly includes serious if quixotic candidates for the nomination.

Early Equinox

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Our downstairs calendar is astronomy themed, obtained from my Secret Santa at work during the holidays. The year before, I’d asked for postcards, and got some packs of them. I decided an astronomy calendar would be the thing last Christmas, so that is what I asked for.

It’s called Astronomy with Phil Harrington, published by Willow Creek Press. Harrington seems to be something of a cottage industry when it comes to popular astronomy works. As for Willow Creek, it publishes scads of calendars, from Abstract Art 2024 to Zoo in a Box. Good for them. My calendar suggestions for 2025: Great Elevators of Europe, Vintage American Bottle Caps, and Classic TV Shows That Lasted A Season Or Less.

It’s a fine calendar, chock-a-block with information, and excellent images of celestial sights. For March, the Hubble Ultra-Deep Field image, said to capture roughly 10,000 galaxies, an imponderable number of places and yet a vanishingly tiny fraction of them all. For April: a photo of the total eclipse of 2017, for obvious reasons.

I look at the calendar often. I looked at it this morning and learned that today is the vernal equinox, at 10:06 p.m. Central Daylight Time, when the sun appears straight above the equator, headed (so to speak) northward. Not, I think, the “first day of spring.” Not around here anyway. For the last week, the chill we didn’t get much in February has slipped into March.

I’d have thought the equinox would be on the 20th or 21st, and I suppose by Coordinated Universal Time it is on the 20th, but the time I care about is CDT. Turns out the vernal equinox is earlier than usual this year, due to the leap year and other factors too complicated for me to relate.

As if to mark the vernal equinox – though I’m sure it’s a coincidence – a tree service hired by the village came by today to trim the trees along the street. Those in the “parkway,” that is, the land between the street and the lot lines, and thus belonging to the village. Public trees.

After the trimming, which I was too busy to document, came a wood chipper. I was ready for that.

I noticed that the machine is a Morbark brand. (Not Mo’BetterBark.) I had to look that up. Turns out the village is supporting Michigan manufacturing by having one.

“The year was 1957 when Norval Morey, a local sawmill operator, took the first risky step into manufacturing armed with a patent for a portable pulp wood debarker,” the company web site says. “The Morbark Debarker Company was born that year, and nobody in Winn, Michigan, could have predicted the growth that the company would experience over the next five decades.”

Fearsome machines, those wood chippers. The kind of death maw that a villain dangles James Bond over, only to fall in himself when 007 inevitably makes his escape from the trap.

The Bond bon mot at that moment (Roger Moore, I picture it): “Bet that chap has a grinding headache.”

Monday Moonery

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Why should we start sending people back to the Moon? Because it’s still there? Besides that. Rather, because the ranks of those who have flown to the Moon are getting pretty thin – something I thought of when I learned that Tom Stafford (Apollo 10) died. Now only seven of them are left, four who landed on the surface and three who got really close without landing.

At 88, the youngest of this rarefied group is Apollo 16’s Charles Duke. Three have passed just in the last few months, including Ken Mattingly (also Apollo 16) and Frank Borman (Apollo 8) and now Stafford. It wouldn’t be right somehow to have the experience of being close to the Moon slip out of living memory. The plan is for these astronauts to go next year on Artemis 2; we shall see.

If Artemis 2 does come to pass as planned, it would include among its crew one Jeremy Hansen, who happens to be a Canadian astronaut and would be the first non-American (non-citizen of the United States, to nitpickers) to pay a visit to the Moon. Assuming a knot of taikonauts doesn’t surprise the world before Artemis’ flight by appearing on the lunar surface hoisting the flag of the PRC.

Hansen, as Wiki succinctly put it, “Canadian astronaut, fighter pilot, physicist and former aquanaut.” If that’s not an action hero’s resume, I don’t know what would be.

Lots of rabbit-hole material here: Canada currently has four active astronauts (one of whom is Hansen) and a number of retired ones, including the dude astronaut who played “Space Oddity” on the ISS about 10 years ago. They work or worked for the Canadian Space Agency, which has been around since 1989 but I’d say is fairly low profile. Canadians have been going to space since before then, since Marc Garneau went up on a 1984 Shuttle mission. He happens to be a Québécois and until recently fairly highly positioned in the current Trudeau government.

Here’s a question for Moon landing deniers: how come some other nation (say, you know, China) hasn’t faked going to the Moon by now? Certainly Xi Jinping would be able to marshal the resources, by various carrots and sticks, to get the filming and other fakery done.

If someone (say, you know, Kubrick) could fake it using late ’60s video tech, wouldn’t the vast improvements in digital image creation since then mean a higher quality fake by the Chinese government? One so good no one would question it? Except of course for brave Moon-landing deniers.