The Sierra Madre Farmer's market is surely on its way out. Every week there are fewer vendors - less than half-a-block of space needed for all. Distressing when I see the crowds at all the nearby communities on their market days - LaCanada, Pasadena, South Pasadena, Monrovia -
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
a visual blog
I have just discovered pinterest. And, I am having fun with it. As noted in the title of this post, pinterest is a visual blog. I have enjoyed finding a variety of things to put on my boards. Just wondering how many will really take time to view them. But, it is a good exercise in mental stimulation.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Post post script to last post
Every day - more telemarketing calls - so I have composed my version of the bugler song mentioned in my last post -
someday
I’m going to murder the caller
someday
you’re going to find him dead
I’ll
stomp upon his telephone
eliminate
his calling zone
and have a quiet home insteadSaturday, September 14, 2013
Someday I'm going to murder the bugler
Several months ago I changed my telephone listing from unlisted to listed. Bad idea. Since then I have received an unrelenting onslaught of telemarketing calls - mostly from construction companies wanting to remodel my home. They are annoying, but especially because they are so ridiculously phony.
"Good morning, my name is **%%# - how are you today? How's your day going?"
or "I hope your day is going well."
When I reply "what do you want?" or "Who is this?" There is a pause as though the caller were offended by my direct approach.
I grew up during the Second World War. A song whose lyrics have stayed in my memory was written during the First World War in tribute to the lowly doughboy - "Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning. Oh, how I'd love to remain in bed. 'You've got to get up, you've got to get out of bed.' Someday I'm going to murder the bugler. Someday you're going to find him dead. I'll amputate his reveille, and step upon it heavily, and spend the rest of my days in bed."
I don't remember the exact wording, but the idea is the same. I would like to reach across the telephone wires and strangle the caller - and spend the rest of my days answering the telephone confidently. Yes, I do have Caller ID, but the clever callers are identified as Private Caller, and so are a few of my friends. I have the choice - to answer, or not to answer -
I am registered on the Government's Do Not Call List - not much help nowadays.
"Good morning, my name is **%%# - how are you today? How's your day going?"
or "I hope your day is going well."
When I reply "what do you want?" or "Who is this?" There is a pause as though the caller were offended by my direct approach.
I grew up during the Second World War. A song whose lyrics have stayed in my memory was written during the First World War in tribute to the lowly doughboy - "Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning. Oh, how I'd love to remain in bed. 'You've got to get up, you've got to get out of bed.' Someday I'm going to murder the bugler. Someday you're going to find him dead. I'll amputate his reveille, and step upon it heavily, and spend the rest of my days in bed."
I don't remember the exact wording, but the idea is the same. I would like to reach across the telephone wires and strangle the caller - and spend the rest of my days answering the telephone confidently. Yes, I do have Caller ID, but the clever callers are identified as Private Caller, and so are a few of my friends. I have the choice - to answer, or not to answer -
I am registered on the Government's Do Not Call List - not much help nowadays.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Pinterest - I'm on
I am in the 21st century - on pinterest with my name Dorothy Raymond Take a look at my Boards.
When I tried getting back to my blog this morning I was surprised to see that my last post was in 2011 -
Today is Friday, the 13th - and MaeRose has tummy troubles - she stole one and one half bagels yesterday - but that should not cause so much aftermath evidence - unless the plastic wrap is the problem.
Blogs are probably passé
now that most people are tweeting and twirling and texting.
When I tried getting back to my blog this morning I was surprised to see that my last post was in 2011 -
Today is Friday, the 13th - and MaeRose has tummy troubles - she stole one and one half bagels yesterday - but that should not cause so much aftermath evidence - unless the plastic wrap is the problem.
Blogs are probably passé
now that most people are tweeting and twirling and texting.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Ethnically incorrect artistic assumptions
I recently had an appraisal by a bank loan officer. His name, given to me beforehand, was recognizably Japanese. So, in addition to trying to 'unclutter' every room and make sure the surroundings looked spacious as possible, I polished my three tansus, pulled out additional Japanese artifacts, and awaited favorable comment. (I even stuffed several large dog beds into my car, front and back, because there was no other place to get them out of the way.)
Lesson learned. After entering my "Japanese" bedroom, and getting no response. I pointed out one of the tansus. "Oh, I thought it might be Craftsman," was the reply. I nodded at another tansu and the pottery tanuki on top, adding "they're vintage Japanese." All I got was a puzzled shrug.
Then my visitor told me all about a home he appraised in Pasadena which was electronically wired against intrusion because the owner had an entire wall of valuable Japanese paintings. "They must have been old woodblock prints," I suggested.
Later, when he referred to "those block pictures," and told me that the Mexican food in Sedona was the best he had ever had, it became clear that a Japanese heritage does not mean either an appreciation of, or an interest in things decidedly "of a place."
The same must hold true of any culturally-specific artifact, or food, or clothing - not necessarily appreciated nor recognized by someone from the culture.
Lesson learned. After entering my "Japanese" bedroom, and getting no response. I pointed out one of the tansus. "Oh, I thought it might be Craftsman," was the reply. I nodded at another tansu and the pottery tanuki on top, adding "they're vintage Japanese." All I got was a puzzled shrug.
Then my visitor told me all about a home he appraised in Pasadena which was electronically wired against intrusion because the owner had an entire wall of valuable Japanese paintings. "They must have been old woodblock prints," I suggested.
Later, when he referred to "those block pictures," and told me that the Mexican food in Sedona was the best he had ever had, it became clear that a Japanese heritage does not mean either an appreciation of, or an interest in things decidedly "of a place."
The same must hold true of any culturally-specific artifact, or food, or clothing - not necessarily appreciated nor recognized by someone from the culture.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
More on Sierra Madre's new Farmer's Market
A few weeks ago I blogged in dismay about the reopening of the farmer's market in Sierra Madre.
Location much improved - tree-lined street, easy access. But, only a four or five farms with produce, the rest - prepared foods, and predictable clothing.
Things have picked up. More farms, fresh bread, baked goods, fresh fish, and variety of merchants.
Still a 'work in progress' but obvious improvement.
Fingers crossed that it survives, and thrives.
Location much improved - tree-lined street, easy access. But, only a four or five farms with produce, the rest - prepared foods, and predictable clothing.
Things have picked up. More farms, fresh bread, baked goods, fresh fish, and variety of merchants.
Still a 'work in progress' but obvious improvement.
Fingers crossed that it survives, and thrives.
Monday, July 25, 2011
More about children and dogs
Two little boys, aged three and five, approached us on our daily walk, with the proper greeting, "May we pet your dogs?"
Then the older surprised me by asking if MaeRose had fangs (at first I thought he said 'stains') -
and then he asked me if she was a vampire. The final question, which he posed seriously, pointing to Darby, "Can I pull his tail?"
That is the first time a child has asked that. We have met literally hundreds of young children with our volunteer activities for the Pasadena Humane Society - all ages from infancy to teenaged. Even tho' some are afraid of dogs, none has asked about vampires, or permission to pull a tail. There is always a first.
Then the older surprised me by asking if MaeRose had fangs (at first I thought he said 'stains') -
and then he asked me if she was a vampire. The final question, which he posed seriously, pointing to Darby, "Can I pull his tail?"
That is the first time a child has asked that. We have met literally hundreds of young children with our volunteer activities for the Pasadena Humane Society - all ages from infancy to teenaged. Even tho' some are afraid of dogs, none has asked about vampires, or permission to pull a tail. There is always a first.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Another morning in Sierra Madre and surroundings
This morning a large coyote raced past me and my two dogs - on a tree-lined residential street - another ho hum moment for seasoned residents. I wonder where it was going in such a hurry. Or where it hides out in these many blocks of homes and commercial buildings.
In 1984, months prior to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. newscasters, newspapers (yes, there were several) and local pundits predicted a massive traffic jam from the beaches to the foothills. Warnings, alternate route directions, stay at home pleas, overwhelmed. And, then the two weeks arrived - to the joy and wonderment of those of us who traveled everywhere by automobile - blissfully enjoying clogless freeways, and the cachet of bragging about getting from Pasadena to Santa Monica in less than 30 minutes.
And now, July 2011, comes a repeat - carmageddon, cartastrophe, carmania - all because for a weekend the 405 Freeway is going to be closed for a ten mile stretch. For weeks we have been promised round the clock news coverage, traffic officers working triple overtime, speculations of major never before seen bumper to bumper jams - interviews with brides choosing alternate routes for wedding guests, interviews with families fleeing on vacation, interviews with construction crews threatened with $72000 an hour fines for every hour past the deadline for freeway reopening.
Next week we will know - another 1984 summer? Who knows?
Yesterday the new Sierra Madre Farmer's Market opened - what a disappointment - two vendors with vegetables, two with fruit, one with fish, one with almonds (expensive!) two ethnic food stalls, four booths with limp unappealing flea-market style clothing, one with pseudo-vintage pillow covers and frayed straw hats.
All the pre-opening publicity led me to expect much more. I will, instead, join the throngs at the Saturday market in Pasadena.
Guess you can tell this is a morning of partial venting.
In 1984, months prior to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. newscasters, newspapers (yes, there were several) and local pundits predicted a massive traffic jam from the beaches to the foothills. Warnings, alternate route directions, stay at home pleas, overwhelmed. And, then the two weeks arrived - to the joy and wonderment of those of us who traveled everywhere by automobile - blissfully enjoying clogless freeways, and the cachet of bragging about getting from Pasadena to Santa Monica in less than 30 minutes.
And now, July 2011, comes a repeat - carmageddon, cartastrophe, carmania - all because for a weekend the 405 Freeway is going to be closed for a ten mile stretch. For weeks we have been promised round the clock news coverage, traffic officers working triple overtime, speculations of major never before seen bumper to bumper jams - interviews with brides choosing alternate routes for wedding guests, interviews with families fleeing on vacation, interviews with construction crews threatened with $72000 an hour fines for every hour past the deadline for freeway reopening.
Next week we will know - another 1984 summer? Who knows?
Yesterday the new Sierra Madre Farmer's Market opened - what a disappointment - two vendors with vegetables, two with fruit, one with fish, one with almonds (expensive!) two ethnic food stalls, four booths with limp unappealing flea-market style clothing, one with pseudo-vintage pillow covers and frayed straw hats.
All the pre-opening publicity led me to expect much more. I will, instead, join the throngs at the Saturday market in Pasadena.
Guess you can tell this is a morning of partial venting.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Another dog tale - two living happily in a truck cab
An enormous shiny red Volvo truck cab minus its trailer parked outside the Pasadena Dog Park last week.
It is state of the art - no manually shifted gears, just an automatic shift resembling a small baseball bat with a selection knob on top.
Traveling cross country from Colorado to southern California every week were the the two drivers (man and wife), and their two larger-than-average-size dogs - a Sharpei named Winston and an Italian mastiff named Paolo. Their first stop in Pasadena is at the dog park, where the four-legged occupants romp happily and the two-legged drivers stretch their legs before heading to 24-hour Fitness - part of their regular routine.
The two truckers share the 17 hour drive to Breckenridge and back - each driving halfway. They recently acquired the mastiff - a replacement for one who died a few months ago. The Sharpei looks old and a little weather-beaten. Paolo, on the other hand, has a long way to grow into his extremely floppy loose skin. He flops around, skin sagging and drooping from chin, chest, hindquarters. When it's time to get back in the cab, he puts his paws on the first step, and gets lifted up and shoved in.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying their 'life on the road' - the dogs sleep, the drivers drive, the products get delivered.
It is state of the art - no manually shifted gears, just an automatic shift resembling a small baseball bat with a selection knob on top.
Traveling cross country from Colorado to southern California every week were the the two drivers (man and wife), and their two larger-than-average-size dogs - a Sharpei named Winston and an Italian mastiff named Paolo. Their first stop in Pasadena is at the dog park, where the four-legged occupants romp happily and the two-legged drivers stretch their legs before heading to 24-hour Fitness - part of their regular routine.
The two truckers share the 17 hour drive to Breckenridge and back - each driving halfway. They recently acquired the mastiff - a replacement for one who died a few months ago. The Sharpei looks old and a little weather-beaten. Paolo, on the other hand, has a long way to grow into his extremely floppy loose skin. He flops around, skin sagging and drooping from chin, chest, hindquarters. When it's time to get back in the cab, he puts his paws on the first step, and gets lifted up and shoved in.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying their 'life on the road' - the dogs sleep, the drivers drive, the products get delivered.
Summertime and the fruit is tasty
The Saturday morning Farmer's Market in Pasadena draws enormous crowds, especially during summer months. Every third or fourth vendor offers strawberries - very much in season, and all advertised unashamedly as 'the sweetest.' Stone fruits, berries, even a few apples - along with a glum-faced farmer whose booth promises that his hydroponically grown tomatoes are 'like a tomato should taste.' When I saw this legend on a banner over his booth I started to laugh. I have yet to find a really good tomato (other than from a backyard garden) in any grocery, high-priced or tumble-down, anywhere on the west coast.
The beefsteak tomatoes grown in the southeast are beyond compare.
Haven't tasted the tomatoes I purchased from the cheerless farmer yet. I'm counting on them having a happy taste - despite his gloom.
A year or two ago the parking lot at the market was redesigned. Apparently in order to make every driver crazed. Bumper cars in a maze. Each entrance overflowing with long lines led by a gas-guzzling vehicle, blinker on, unmoving - waiting forever to squeeze into a too-small space. Exiting is as difficult. Every driver in a moving car maneuvers triumphantly down a single lane, while all the other lanes merge to a standstill.
Post script - the tomatoes did not 'taste like a tomato should' - no big surprise. The next time I went to the market the crowds were as big, and the drivers were just as impatient.
The beefsteak tomatoes grown in the southeast are beyond compare.
Haven't tasted the tomatoes I purchased from the cheerless farmer yet. I'm counting on them having a happy taste - despite his gloom.
A year or two ago the parking lot at the market was redesigned. Apparently in order to make every driver crazed. Bumper cars in a maze. Each entrance overflowing with long lines led by a gas-guzzling vehicle, blinker on, unmoving - waiting forever to squeeze into a too-small space. Exiting is as difficult. Every driver in a moving car maneuvers triumphantly down a single lane, while all the other lanes merge to a standstill.
Post script - the tomatoes did not 'taste like a tomato should' - no big surprise. The next time I went to the market the crowds were as big, and the drivers were just as impatient.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
He's in the dryer
Rose, our mobile groomer, knocked on the door to pick up MaeRose. I asked where Darby was -
the response - "He's in the dryer, and he really seems to like it."
For the next hour I sat and giggled at the idea of Darby being 'in the dryer.' Sort of like imagining him in the oven, or the dishwasher.
Of course, I had to see for myself. The dryer is a large glass enclosed rectangle, with sliding doors -
which wafts a gentle breeze. Much nicer than a loud electric blower.
the response - "He's in the dryer, and he really seems to like it."
For the next hour I sat and giggled at the idea of Darby being 'in the dryer.' Sort of like imagining him in the oven, or the dishwasher.
Of course, I had to see for myself. The dryer is a large glass enclosed rectangle, with sliding doors -
which wafts a gentle breeze. Much nicer than a loud electric blower.
Stroll in Sierra Madre Part Two
Friday morning in Sierra Madre - white-bearded man crouched on curb -a pug on each side - one yapping as ferociously as only a pug can. Across the street a young man pushing an acoustic lawnmower.
Where do they find someone to sharpen this relic?
At the crossroads - ginormous black mastiff-like dog, large black poodle, various others of lesser identity.
Several loose cats - MaeRose at leash-end tugging till her collar strangles. If she were a few pounds heavier, she and I would tumble. I have put the gentle lead back on Darby to slow him down - he is not lured by cats, just too eager to dash down the street at walk's onset.
Where do they find someone to sharpen this relic?
At the crossroads - ginormous black mastiff-like dog, large black poodle, various others of lesser identity.
Several loose cats - MaeRose at leash-end tugging till her collar strangles. If she were a few pounds heavier, she and I would tumble. I have put the gentle lead back on Darby to slow him down - he is not lured by cats, just too eager to dash down the street at walk's onset.
Sierra Madre neighborhood walk - again
Walking through the park this morning we saw a neatly dressed gray-haired man with two young girls by his side. Both girls chorused "May we pet your dogs, may we pet your dogs?" They ran up telling me
"we've been trying to get the those men over there to stop fightingtheeyllls. " After they had repeated "fightingtheeylis" and I asked if they were talking about "owls," their companion (father? grandfather?)
translated "fighting Israelis." Rather startling comment from the under-five set. Another notch in my belief that adults mold and children are pliable.
Later we met one of the first-grade classes from Sierra Madre School, lined up along a wall outside Bean Town, slurping ice cream from cone and bowl. "MaeRose, MaeRose," greeted Charlotte, jumping down to meet us. (Charlotte and her sister Madeline are among the faithful readers we meet for our monthly Barks and Books visit to the Sierra Madre Library.) We were soon surrounded by a swarm of children
patting every inch of Darby and MaeRose front to back, top to bottom. Their teacher promised to visit us next time Barks and Books meets.
"we've been trying to get the those men over there to stop fightingtheeyllls. " After they had repeated "fightingtheeylis" and I asked if they were talking about "owls," their companion (father? grandfather?)
translated "fighting Israelis." Rather startling comment from the under-five set. Another notch in my belief that adults mold and children are pliable.
Later we met one of the first-grade classes from Sierra Madre School, lined up along a wall outside Bean Town, slurping ice cream from cone and bowl. "MaeRose, MaeRose," greeted Charlotte, jumping down to meet us. (Charlotte and her sister Madeline are among the faithful readers we meet for our monthly Barks and Books visit to the Sierra Madre Library.) We were soon surrounded by a swarm of children
patting every inch of Darby and MaeRose front to back, top to bottom. Their teacher promised to visit us next time Barks and Books meets.
Beverly Cleary - on the occasion of her 95th birthday
The first time we read a Henry Huggins book my sons were four, six, seven and eight. They, and I, were so enchanted by Henry's adventures, that I wrote Beverly Cleary a thank you note - for writing stories which rambunctious young boys found laugh-out-loudable . About that time I also wrote a fan letter to Bob Keeshan - aka Captain Kangaroo.
Dare I say that was 48 years ago? I received a reply from each. Wish I had saved them.
Dare I say that was 48 years ago? I received a reply from each. Wish I had saved them.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Dog tumor adventure
MaeRose:
I discovered that MaeRose had gnawed into the tumor on her right front leg, and split it open. We rushed to Dr. Watanabe's, had a long wait, and when he saw her he said that I should keep it uncovered over the weekend so it could scab over before Monday's surgery - which would be squeezed in ahead of schedule.
The weekend was dreadful. I bought a new expensive Comfy Cone, which MR managed to drag across the tumor - leaving a trail of blood in her effort to get at it -
so I put her back into the plastic cone from the vet's.
That first night I tired shutting her up in the kitchen, hoping to keep the rest of the house gore-free. When she realized that Darby and I had gone to bed she went through several stages:
1. Barking
2. Barking louder
3. Barking woefully and even louder
4.and two hours later, managing to knock down the gate and drag herself up the stairs - open plastic cone dangling from her collar.
Saturday -
Rain, rain, rain. The dogs don't like going out in the rain, and MR was even more reluctant than ever.
All day long I cut the toes out of old socks to cover her tumor, the only thing Dr. Watanabe said I might do - he had absolutely refused to bandage it. MR gnawed, slurped, nibbled -
anything she could think of to get at the tumor, dragging the edge of the plastic cone over it - ick. More blood - and soggy soggy pieces of sock.
Sunday - the same - the day seemed endless.
Monday morning - arrived at Dr. W's. to find that they had a very busy schedule. Everyone was horrified when they saw what MR had managed to do - at least half of the tumor was gone - looked like a torn tennis ball with jagged edges - I guessed she had decided to do her own surgery.
Late Monday - $933 bill (teeth cleaning included) - nice green bandage, plastic cone secure. Dr. W. said that she had used her teeth to push some of the tumor down into tendons, and that he had ordered another pathology ($175) - I'm a little uncertain about the details of his reasoning - one of those end of the day somewhat rushed conversations.
MR settled into her new cone-head routine beautifully. Every now and then she came up to me and looked wistfully - "What in the world is this thing on my head?" I cleared paths inside and out - but she had no trouble eating, drinking, jumping on my bed, into the car (for little trips) - and you can see from these photos - she squished herself onto a stool so that she could look out the window.
Couldn't wait for the bandage and the cone to come off. There was no scar or something which she could chew on, just a little row of white thread - to mark the top of the incision against her black fur.
All this time Darby did not get much exercise - and let me know it. He opened drawers, knocked over wastebaskets, and tried staring me down with a baleful look. I'm not sure who won.
When the second pathology report came, it indicated that the tumor had been cancerous. Next step was a chemo pill - so potent that I was instructed to wear rubber gloves when handling it.
And, now, in April when I am finally posting this, the tumor has not returned. But, then there was the husky attack - five of them -
to be continued.
In December two weeks before the date scheduled for tumor removal, 
The weekend was dreadful. I bought a new expensive Comfy Cone, which MR managed to drag across the tumor - leaving a trail of blood in her effort to get at it -
so I put her back into the plastic cone from the vet's.
That first night I tired shutting her up in the kitchen, hoping to keep the rest of the house gore-free. When she realized that Darby and I had gone to bed she went through several stages:
1. Barking
2. Barking louder
3. Barking woefully and even louder
4.and two hours later, managing to knock down the gate and drag herself up the stairs - open plastic cone dangling from her collar.
Saturday -
Rain, rain, rain. The dogs don't like going out in the rain, and MR was even more reluctant than ever.
All day long I cut the toes out of old socks to cover her tumor, the only thing Dr. Watanabe said I might do - he had absolutely refused to bandage it. MR gnawed, slurped, nibbled -
anything she could think of to get at the tumor, dragging the edge of the plastic cone over it - ick. More blood - and soggy soggy pieces of sock.
Sunday - the same - the day seemed endless.
Monday morning - arrived at Dr. W's. to find that they had a very busy schedule. Everyone was horrified when they saw what MR had managed to do - at least half of the tumor was gone - looked like a torn tennis ball with jagged edges - I guessed she had decided to do her own surgery.
Late Monday - $933 bill (teeth cleaning included) - nice green bandage, plastic cone secure. Dr. W. said that she had used her teeth to push some of the tumor down into tendons, and that he had ordered another pathology ($175) - I'm a little uncertain about the details of his reasoning - one of those end of the day somewhat rushed conversations.
MR settled into her new cone-head routine beautifully. Every now and then she came up to me and looked wistfully - "What in the world is this thing on my head?" I cleared paths inside and out - but she had no trouble eating, drinking, jumping on my bed, into the car (for little trips) - and you can see from these photos - she squished herself onto a stool so that she could look out the window.
Couldn't wait for the bandage and the cone to come off. There was no scar or something which she could chew on, just a little row of white thread - to mark the top of the incision against her black fur.
All this time Darby did not get much exercise - and let me know it. He opened drawers, knocked over wastebaskets, and tried staring me down with a baleful look. I'm not sure who won.
When the second pathology report came, it indicated that the tumor had been cancerous. Next step was a chemo pill - so potent that I was instructed to wear rubber gloves when handling it.
And, now, in April when I am finally posting this, the tumor has not returned. But, then there was the husky attack - five of them -
to be continued.
More grammar woes - grammar snob am I
I can't stop getting uptight, annoyed, grinding my teeth, wondering if I am out of the loop -
it's all about the universal misuse of pronouns. Are we heading toward the day when sentences such as "Sonja and him make a great pair," "My coach and me went to the finals," "Her and my mom are best friends"are standard English?
I could fill page after page after page with quotes from the media - among them, yesterday's from Luann, one of the New York housewives, and a "Countess" who has written an etiquette book. She is responsible for the first of the quotes above.
Will the day arrive when English handbooks accept the objective pronoun as the subjective one?
Usage, so they say, is fluent and subject to change. My mother used to insist on the proper use of "whom" rather than "who." When I hear it used correctly nowadays, it sounds quite stilted.
Do teachers even bother to correct their students, or are they setting the example? When I was calling on college professors, representing a major educational textbook publisher, I met many who taught essay writing but admitted that they did not correct students' grammar - implying it would inhibit creativity.
Which leads to more than one generation of graduates and post-graduates who mangle the language blissfully - and us older fuddy-duddies whose numbers grow smaller every day.
it's all about the universal misuse of pronouns. Are we heading toward the day when sentences such as "Sonja and him make a great pair," "My coach and me went to the finals," "Her and my mom are best friends"are standard English?
I could fill page after page after page with quotes from the media - among them, yesterday's from Luann, one of the New York housewives, and a "Countess" who has written an etiquette book. She is responsible for the first of the quotes above.
Will the day arrive when English handbooks accept the objective pronoun as the subjective one?
Usage, so they say, is fluent and subject to change. My mother used to insist on the proper use of "whom" rather than "who." When I hear it used correctly nowadays, it sounds quite stilted.
Do teachers even bother to correct their students, or are they setting the example? When I was calling on college professors, representing a major educational textbook publisher, I met many who taught essay writing but admitted that they did not correct students' grammar - implying it would inhibit creativity.
Which leads to more than one generation of graduates and post-graduates who mangle the language blissfully - and us older fuddy-duddies whose numbers grow smaller every day.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Gum Chewing in public appearances and the anatomy of a cow
Showing my age, attitude, disdain - so what?
Just saw an interview with Jamie Oliver, Food Revolution guru, about his appearance at the Los Angeles
Unified School District Board. He offered to visit their schools to offer alternatives to the food choices currently provided to the students. His mission is to instruct, encourage healthy eating, and to change the obsession with junk food among the majority of today's school children.
The camera panned across the faces of the School Board members - impassively listening, many barely paying attention, not a glimmer of encouragement - but what struck me enough to write this blog entry was that several of them were chewing gum - at least I imagine it was gum - what else do people chew nonstop nowadays?
Needless to say, Oliver's request was turned down, and some of the Board continued contentedly munching their "cuds."
The next televised segment showed Oliver visiting a school leading a cow to a pile of hay. The cow's hide was chalked into sections - to show various parts of its body.
I wonder how many of the School Board members know anything about the anatomy of a cow.
Do they know that it has four stomachs (accurately, "chambers")- or what cud chewing really is?
Interested in public school education? Take a look sometime at the televised meetings of the LAUSD Board -
Just saw an interview with Jamie Oliver, Food Revolution guru, about his appearance at the Los Angeles
Unified School District Board. He offered to visit their schools to offer alternatives to the food choices currently provided to the students. His mission is to instruct, encourage healthy eating, and to change the obsession with junk food among the majority of today's school children.
The camera panned across the faces of the School Board members - impassively listening, many barely paying attention, not a glimmer of encouragement - but what struck me enough to write this blog entry was that several of them were chewing gum - at least I imagine it was gum - what else do people chew nonstop nowadays?
Needless to say, Oliver's request was turned down, and some of the Board continued contentedly munching their "cuds."
The next televised segment showed Oliver visiting a school leading a cow to a pile of hay. The cow's hide was chalked into sections - to show various parts of its body.
I wonder how many of the School Board members know anything about the anatomy of a cow.
Do they know that it has four stomachs (accurately, "chambers")- or what cud chewing really is?
Interested in public school education? Take a look sometime at the televised meetings of the LAUSD Board -
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Copyright ownership - whose is it?
At a recent gathering of children's writers a question about posting on blogs came up. One participant insisted that Google owns the copyright of anything posted on blogspot - but the Google website covering blogger and blogspot seems to contradict, and to a certain legalese extent, clarify it.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Dog and people strolling in Sierra Madre, CA
Temperature in the mid-70's - brilliant blue cloudless sky - helicopter circling foothills - day workers slumped hopefully on park benches - mothers and grandparents pushing strollers - (lots of infant twins in this town) - and dogs large and small trotting down the boulevard.
Along comes a plump woman, short in stature, zealous in wardrobe - snug cap, winter coat, dress striped and polkadotted, white furry boots, rouged cheeks, penciled eyebrows, with a comment: "I need a dog to walk in this town."
I'm wearing shorts, the doodles are thirsty - no time to stop to see Neil the pig.
Along comes a plump woman, short in stature, zealous in wardrobe - snug cap, winter coat, dress striped and polkadotted, white furry boots, rouged cheeks, penciled eyebrows, with a comment: "I need a dog to walk in this town."
I'm wearing shorts, the doodles are thirsty - no time to stop to see Neil the pig.
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