Sounds & Fury

How Stupid Is That?

Enough of all this serious talk about culture. It's bloody August, and everyone's out to lunch on the beach or in the mountains or wherever anyway, so it's the perfect time for an episode of...

How Stupid Is That?

About 10 years ago, I went shopping for a living room armchair and was appalled by the prices. I had fixed in my mind a gorgeous leather armchair with matching ottoman I'd bought many years before (around 1963 or so), and for which I'd laid out some $500 which in terms of that year's money was a huge sum. The approximate same thing 10 years ago had a price tag of some $2800!

Screw this, I thought. I'm going to buy me one a them tacky La-Z-Boy recliner thingies instead; you know, the ones that have that built-in footrest that pops up when you sit back hard against the recliner's back.

So I set off shopping and I'm stunned. Those tacky things cost some $500 at cheapest! Not for me. Not in this life. I simply refuse to lay out that kind of money for something that tacky. I'm about ready to go home when I see an armchair on sale at the back of the store. A really cheesy-looking, no-name, non-La-Z-Boy-type regular stuffed armchair upholstered in yucky beige corduroy fabric. Price: $125.

Sold!

And that's the armchair I've been living with for the past 10 years, and each time I sit in it I expect it to start falling apart so cheesy is it. But it hasn't done so yet even though it's made threatening noises suggesting it was about to do so a couple times. And whenever I settle in to listen to music, or read, or watch a movie, I have to drag a table chair from the kitchen to use as a footrest. It's a royal pain in the ass to have to do that, and it doesn't feel right when I put my feet up on it because the seat is a bit too high for a footrest, but what can I do but make do.

Last night, I wanted to watch a DVD, but the air conditioner is making such a whooshing racket I can't hear the TV sound very well, so I figure I'll just drag the armchair closer to the TV for the nonce, and set up there. I try to manhandle the thing by grasping it by its back, but it's damned heavy, and I have to drag it on a wood floor and then over a rug, and it's giving me all sorts of grief, so I switch tactics. Instead of grasping it by its back, I go round to the front of the armchair, grasp it under the upholstered front panel that runs from the seat to the floor, lift the armchair onto its back feet, and start pulling.

Uh-oh. I'm in trouble now. The damn front panel starts breaking away from the armchair, and I immediately let go of it so that the front of the armchair drops back down onto its front feet again. I try to assess the damage, but can't see under the armchair to see just how extensive the damage might be. Then I think, "Oh, the hell with it! If the panel breaks off, it breaks off. It's time for another armchair anyway. And this time, tacky as it is, I'll spring for a La-Z-Boy recliner so I'll at least have a proper footrest."

So I grasp the armchair under the upholstered front panel again, lift, and start pulling. Sure enough, the panel again starts breaking away from the armchair, but I keep on pulling; keep on pulling until the panel breaks away from the armchair completely, revealing itself not broken but the top portion of a built-in La-Z-Boy-recliner-type footrest — a two-position footrest, the first for an almost upright sitting position, the second for an almost fully reclining position, that pops up when one sits back hard against the armchair's back — that's been there all along for these past 10 years, but which I never knew existed.

Now I ask you, How stupid is that?

Viola Joke Of The Week

(Our thanks to the Minnesota Orchestra blog, Inside The Classics, for the image.)

Strauss And Mahler Mark Passover With A Reenactment...Of Sorts

Kudos to Matthew Guerrieri of Soho The Dog for the latest in his ongoing series of Strauss-Mahler Favorite Movie Moments. This time it's the season-appropriate, The Ten Commandments.

The New York Philharmonic’s Visit To Pyongyang

While we had decided to post nothing about this event as we’ve no strong feelings about it one way or the other, I suppose we really ought to say something just for the record’s sake. And that something is best expressed by the following old Jewish joke.

Moishe is dead. Friends and family gather for the funeral service before the burial. The rabbi mounts the pulpit to deliver the eulogy and intone all the appropriate prayers. Poor, dead Moishe is in his coffin just below at the foot of the pulpit.

Somberly, the rabbi begins by reciting the life of Moishe to the assembled mourners, replete with expressions of sorrow at the good man's passing. There's not a dry eye in the packed house.

Suddenly, from the rear of the funeral chapel, up jumps a man, and in a voice raucous and insistent, declares loudly, "Give Moishe some chicken soup!"

Shocked, everyone turns to see what lunatic has been let loose among them. The rabbi, momentarily nonplussed, quickly regains himself, decides the best course of action is to ignore the meshugener, and almost without missing a beat, continues with the eulogy.

"Give Moishe some chicken soup!" the wretch again cries out.

Once more, the mourners turn, and once more the rabbi decides to ignore the rude outburst and continue with the eulogy.

After a minute, again, but even more urgently, "Give Moishe some chicken soup!"

The rabbi, thinking that perhaps the man has gone demented with grief, decides this time to address him directly and sternly. "Poor Moishe is dead. What good will chicken soup do him now?"

"Couldn't hurt," replies the man.

Why We Love Rossini

Microsoft And Me

I swear, by all and everything I hold near and dear, that I'm not making any of this up, nor am I adding even so much as an iota of exaggeration or embellishment; devices normally excused as an exercise of "poetic license" or some such. The following is merely a direct bit of truth-telling, straight up.

Regular readers of Sounds & Fury know about my acquisition a few weeks ago of a new toy: Microsoft Office Word 2007 (hereafter referred to as Word). I obtained my copy of Word by downloading from Microsoft online the entire Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007 suite containing the Word application as, oddly enough, it's the cheapest way to acquire Word which is the only application in that suite of four applications I'll be using as I can see no reason to ever have to use any of the other three.

What I downloaded is called a Trial Version. The Trial Version operates exactly the same as the regular version except it works for only 90 days, after which time it simply ceases to function unless you choose to "convert" it into the regular version. The Trial Version is free, and a neat way to try everything out before deciding whether or not to actually buy the product. A sharp marketing move on Microsoft's part, and one that benefits both Microsoft and Microsoft's customers.

The way one converts a Trial Version to a regular version, or Perpetual Version as it's called, is to simply buy the retail version from any retailer, online or brick-&-mortar; open the CD case; and read off from some location therein or thereon a 25-character code called the Product Key which uniquely identifies that copy of the software. One then simply brings up any one of the four Trial Version Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007 applications in one's computer, clicks on a button labeled variously (depending on the application) Activate or Convert (there are other methods provided, but they all do the same thing), types the Product Key into the text box that appears, clicks the OK button, and the Trial Version software then converts itself automatically into a Perpetual Version, registers itself online with Microsoft, and you're home free with a brand-new Perpetual Version of the entire Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007 suite without having to either uninstall the Trial Version, or install a new Perpetual Version from the CD.

Simple, slick, painless, and foolproof. Typical Microsoft.

So, after using Word for some weeks and loving it, I order from Amazon the retail version of Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007. Amazon ships on 22 September by snail-mail, and the expected delivery date is quoted as 29 September to 9 October using Super Saver free shipping. On 14 October the package has still not arrived, and so I call Amazon, they assume it's been lost in the mail and so ship me out another by regular snail-mail with a quoted delivery of 18 October. The package arrived yesterday — the original shipment, that is, not the replacement which as of this date has yet to arrive.

No problem. I now have my retail copy of Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007 which contains the Product Key, and I'm all set to convert my Trial Version by the above outlined procedure.

But there is a problem. I can't open the very sexily- and totally unconventionally-shaped Lucite CD case (see illustration at the above Amazon link) to get inside and read the Product Key. I don't merely mean the case is hard to open. I mean I can't figure out how it's supposed to open. The bloody thing is like a Rubik's Cube, only more complex because no obvious way of manipulating it.

There's a clue, however. There's a little red-colored strip of tape sticking up from the case's top edge all but inviting one to give it a pull. And so I give it a pull. Nothing. I mean, nothing budges; not the little red strip nor anything else. I give the strip a harder pull. Again nothing. The strip is strong, I'll give it that, and it's not snapping from my pulling, but it refuses to budge either itself or any other part of the Lucite case.

After about three-quarters of an hour of pulling and tugging, along with a number of thoughtful but unsuccessful attempts at trying to figure out how the Lucite case is supposed to open, that little strip of unbudging red tape still remains my only hope. And so finally, in an access of sheer frustration and desperation, I get a pair of pliers, grasp the little red strip in its jaws, and give a healthy pull, upon doing which the tape finally snaps away from the Lucite case, defiant to the very end, and I'm now left completely helpless and bereft of hope in the face of this unyielding Lucite monster.

Now I'm really pissed. I get on the phone to Microsoft. I get one of their outsourced "technicians" somewhere in India. Oh Christ! Not this, too. But I'm at my wit's end, and I'm now really, really pissed, and nothing — nothing!, not even a barely understandable, outsourced Indian "technician" — is going to prevent my getting to the bottom of this, and getting that damn case open.

I tell her the problem as calmly as I'm able. She tells me it's easy to open the case. All I have to do is to "gently" pull that little red strip up and back, and the case will then swing open on its hinged bottom.

Hinged bottom? There's a hinge? Turns out, indeed there is — if one knows where to look for it. I tell her that the little red strip exists no more because when I pulled on it "gently," it snapped. She says, no problem. Microsoft has a special website that tells one, step by step, how to open the Lucite case, and there's certain to be another solution there waiting for me.

Microsoft has a special website devoted to telling its customers how to open its products' Lucite CD cases? What is that? Some kind of ironic or perverse joke?

Jesus!

But I've come this far — this far being something over an hour and a half at this point — and I'm not going to give up now. I'm going to get that bloody Lucite case opened come hell or high water. I ask her for the website's URL. She begins to spell it out for me. When she gets to the 32nd character with a promise of many more characters to come, I explode. I throw down the phone, go to my toolbox, get out the ball-peen hammer, and smash the Lucite case to smithereens. Mercifully, the CD is left unharmed, and — mirabile dictu! — staring at me from one of the shattered fragments is the 25-character Product Key. I pick up the phone, thank the "technician" for her help and bid her adieu, fire up my computer, load Word, click on Activate, enter the Product Key into the text box, click OK, and within seconds I'm home free and the proud owner of a brand-new Perpetual Version of Microsoft Office Home and Student 2007.

Piece of cake.

Hilarious

Don't think, just click.

Sing It, Cowboy!

We're not exactly fans of C&W music, but that doesn't preclude our recognizing a winning song when we hear it. Like this one, for instance (for those of you with tender sensibilities, a caution: repeated use of the F word ahead if you click on the Play button):

Oldies But Goodies

No matter how many times you've read 'em, they're always fun reading again. And if you've never read 'em, well, then, desist from eating or from sipping or drinking any liquids while reading, otherwise things could get messy.

• "Mom, when I grow up I'd like to be a musician."

"Well dear, you know you can't do both."

• What do you call a beautiful woman on a trombonist's arm?

A tattoo.

• What did the drummer get on his IQ Test?

Saliva.

• What do you call a guitar player without a girlfriend?

Homeless.

• What's the similarity between a drummer and a philosopher?

They both perceive time as an abstract concept.

• Why do some people have an instant aversion to banjo players?

In the long run, it saves time.

Exotic Recipe

We on occasion dabble in things culinary here at Sounds & Fury, and the following exotic recipe which apparently has been making the rounds of the Web for some time now, has just come to our attention. We post it below because it has a certain piquant appeal, but caution that it's posted here without warrant of any kind as we've not as yet had occasion to kitchen- or taste-test it.

And so, without further ado, we give you,

How To Cook A Conductor

INGREDIENTS

1 large conductor, or two small assistant conductors
Ketchup
Crisco or other solid vegetable shortening (lard may be used)
26 large garlic cloves
1 cask cheap wine
1 lb. alfalfa sprouts
2 lbs. assorted yuppie food, such as tofu or yogurt
1 abused orchestra

First, catch a conductor. Remove tail and horns. Carefully separate the large ego and reserve for sauce. Remove any batons, pencils (on permanent loan from the Principal Second Violin), long articulations and discard. Remove the hearing aid and discard (it's useless as it never really worked anyway).

Examine your conductor carefully - many of them are mostly large intestine. If you have such a conductor, you will have to discard it and catch another. Clean the conductor as you would a squid, but do not separate the tentacles from the body. If you have an older conductor, such as one from a major symphony orchestra or summer music festival, you may wish to tenderize by pounding the conductor on a rock with timpani mallets or by smashing the conductor between two large cymbals.

Hilarious

More catching up. This MP3 is positively hilarious — the closing bit most particularly.

Faculty Candidate Application — Rejected

Don't ask. Just click here.

Trust me.

How Stupid Was That?

Directed there by a link on the main page of The New York Times online edition, I was moved this past Tuesday (22 November) to enter a forum post in an ongoing discussion in the Cooking & Recipes section of the New York Times's Dining & Wine forum giving the link to my "Annual Bird Post" on this blog (NOTE: link updated 11/14/07), saying it might be of some interest to forum members as the current topic of forum discussion was, quite properly, how best to roast a turkey. The discussion was being led by the Times's Kim Severson, a cooking expert who writes for the Dining section of the Times, and whose most recent piece for that section dealt with simple approaches to roasting a turkey.

As of Thanksgiving Day, well over 150 persons had followed that link (as did, I'm absolutely certain, Ms. Severson herself), yet my forum post received not a single response or comment in the forum.

This, thought I, is most peculiar, and tried to think of what might explain the lack.

And then it hit me.

The lede graf of my "Annual Bird Post" opens with these three charming sentences:

You've all read or heard the experts with their esoteric "secrets" of turkey preparation to ensure a tender, juicy, beautifully browned roast bird for that Thanksgiving feast, right? Don't listen to them. Listen to me.

I'm too stupid to live.

The Great Yuppie Wine Caper

One afternoon, way back when I was an up-and-coming yuppie (yes, I played the bourgeois game for about a decade or so), and therefore did the de rigueur wine-expert thing, I walked into a New Jersey liquor store to purchase three bottles of wine for an elegant dinner my then-wife and I were giving that evening. I sauntered over to the French section (natch) looking every inch the knowledgeable wine buyer, or so I imagined, and began scrutinizing the contents of the racks with the proper air of cool detachment.

There was, of course, the usual selection of famous-name chateaux-bottled wines, but I saw nothing particularly interesting in my price range, and was about to settle for three bottles of a middling vintage at $5 per (about $30 per in today's dollars) when my eye caught the top of a rack that was half-hidden behind what looked like a makeshift partition. On the top row of the rack I struck the mother lode: five bottles of Chateau Lafite, all the same sterling vintage year, and every one bearing a way-low, mis-priced price sticker. Bottles of this stuff were going for some $60 per ($360 per), and these particular bottles were each marked at $8 ($48). Truly, there is a God, I thought to myself, ecstatic. Coming back down to earth, however, I didn't think I'd really get away with it, but it was sure worth the try.

Playing dumb, I grabbed all five bottles, brought them up to the checkout counter, and nonchalantly, and with straight face, handed them to the clerk. He looked at the stickers with typical hired-help disinterest, rang up the bottles without a word or so much as an eye-blink, and rang me out. Cradling my ill-gotten loot in my larcenous arms, I stole away like a thief in the night, feeling mildly guilty, but hugely pleased with myself nevertheless.

Evening arrived, and with it our guests, and while my wife served pre-dinner canapés, I began opening the bottles intending to let the wine breathe for an hour or so. The breath each exhaled on opening, however, was appalling. The wine in every bottle was badly "corked."

Chagrined, I headed back to the liquor store. Behind the counter now, in place of the clerk, there stood the store's owner. With a faint show of annoyance, I presented him the bottles, and quietly lodged my complaint, at which, without opening a single bottle, and with the beginnings of a Jack-Nicholson-wicked smile playing about his lips, he just as quietly replied, "Do you mean to tell me you actually expected to get a bottle of vintage Lafite for drinking at eight bucks a pop?"

Was I embarrassed? Only about $100 worth ($600) as I sheepishly purchased five bottles of a fair vintage Margaux to replace the five bottles of sterling vintage Lafite which, having gone drinking-bad, had been marked down to sell for use as a vinegar base.

Just punishment, I had to confess to myself, to repay attempted larceny, and typically clueless yuppie pretension.

Mysteries Of The Universe, Part I

I don't think it inordinately immodest of me to say I'm a fairly bright guy. So how come on those rare occasions when I'm forced to deal with things involving physical labor I morph into a moron? And not your regular old garden variety moron either, but one prone to multiple wounding accidents.

My new bookcase arrived a little while ago. It has to be assembled (surprise!). I look at the instructions — which, mercifully, are straightforward, clearly printed and with illustrations, and written in passably coherent English — and see immediately that the design of the bookcase is so clever that anyone with the IQ of a rabbit could put the thing together in less than half an hour, and with little more than a moment's thought. There is, however, one thing those clever designers of this cleverly designed bookcase haven't anticipated.

Me.

I begin by preparing the various pieces for assembly, and note they're really heavy. Six three-foot by one-foot by one-inch thick particle board shelves with woodgrained veneer both sides and front edge. Ditto the two six-foot by one-foot by one-inch thick side panels. I don't like the weight of them. Not while I have to work with them, that is.

Putting this misgiving aside, I next start screwing the 12 so-named cam bolts into the 12 thoughtfully pre-drilled holes in the side panels. Piece of cake. When I finish, I proudly survey my handiwork. The work part is just dandy. The hand part, however, isn't. In wielding that lethal weapon, cunningly benignly named a Phillips screwdriver, I've managed to tear a round, quarter-sized strip of skin right off the palm of my hand in the process of applying pressure to the instrument's handle.

This is a less than salutary omen.

After surveying the damage, I wash and bandage the wound. Hurts like hell, but John Wayne-like, I courageously soldier on.

Next, I go about inserting the 12 cams into their 12 pre-drilled holes in the three fixed shelves (bottom, middle, and top). This requires no tools except, at times, a light tap with the butt end of the handle of the aforementioned lethal weapon. I complete the operation, and escape unscathed and proud as punch at how neatly I've accomplished the job.

Now comes the fitting of the cam bolts into the cams. I position all the pieces — the three fixed shelves and two side panels — in their proper alignment by the slick expedient of balancing them on their edges against various pieces of furniture which I've moved and pressed into service for the duration. I then proceed to go about inserting the cam bolts of the side panels into the cams of the shelves, a maneuver vaguely akin to the aloft refueling of a fighter jet by a flying tanker.

Instant catastrophe. All the nicely edge-balanced pieces clatter hard and noisily to the floor, one of the side panels smashing down on my stockinged foot, right on that top part the name of which at present escapes me, but the pain of which when struck doesn't.

Nursing my wounded and fast-swelling foot, I commence hurling manifold curses at the offending piece and all its brethren, and continue the litany of curses until it strikes me that I'm hurling curses at insensate objects, at which point I decide it's time for a break.

A cigarette and two scotches later, I'm stoked for battle. I reposition all the pieces, confident now I've got their number, and know just how to deal with them. And — mirabile dictu! — all the cam bolts slide into their respective cams neat as can be, and without so much as a whimper. I give each cam the required half-turn necessary to lock it, and, Voila!, a structure resembling a bookcase emerges.

Only something about it doesn't look quite right. Seems one of the side panels, behind my back and out of my sight, has managed to turn its rear, unfinished edge forward.

Bloody side panel! Not only did it get me again, but there it sits, pert as you please, mocking me.

I, however, remain perfectly cool. I'm not going to give it the satisfaction. I patiently unlock all the cams on that side, flip the side panel right way round, reinsert the cam bolts, and relock the cams.

Now everything looks right.

Almost.

I check the illustration of the finished bookcase.

The kick panel, the bloody kick panel! I forgot to insert the bloody kick panel at the bloody bottom of the bloody bookcase! And, no, it can't just be sort of slid in. The whole bloody bookcase has to come apart, the bloody kick panel inserted with its bloody dowels positioned to fit into the bloody pre-drilled holes in the bloody side panels, and the whole bloody thing again put together.

I begin to get the sinking feeling it's not merely the battle I'm losing here, but the whole damn war. Like Monty Python's Black Knight, however, I refuse to admit defeat. With a stoicism that would have done Zeno proud, I patiently and methodically unlock all the cams, pull apart all the pieces, insert the kick panel with its dowels in place, reassemble the whole thing, and again lock all the cams.

Now I've got this puppy right.

Not in this life. With the kick panel in place, I can now see at a glance which end of the bookcase is the bottom. It would have been better had I seen that before I positioned the shelves. As it is, I've positioned them with the cam side facing up, and the cams plainly visible in all their not-intended-to-be-seen glory.

You of course know what that means. Right. Everything has to come apart again, the shelves flipped right way round, and the whole thing again reassembled.

About this time I'm thinking some yogic breathing exercises would be just the ticket.

No help. Should have paid more attention back in the '60s. All I can manage now is a bout of seriously involuntary hyperventilation, and make a dash for the kitchen to locate a paper bag to breath into. I find one, and five minutes later I'm again breathing normally, and again set about doing the drill I've by now learned so well I could do it while asleep. After another ten minutes I'm done, and the bookcase completed.

Except for the back.

This, it turns out, is a thin sheet of black Masonite, finished on one side — the side intended to face in — with a woodgrain pattern to match the rest of the bookcase. The sheet gets nailed to the rear edges of the side panels and fixed shelves with about ten gazillion itty bitty nails. Nails, of course, require a hammer, an instrument of truly prodigious lethal possibility. But I'm determined and obdurate. I will use the hammer, and I will make it submit docilely to my need and purpose.

Uh-huh. Of course I will.

What's that? Which digit was it? The crucial one, of course. The ol' opposable thumb. It, too, now hurts like hell, but I think the thumbnail will eventually grow back good as new.

Or so I've been told.

At day's end, however, though I'm bruised and broken, I'm not beaten, for there proudly stands my new bookcase in its assigned place against my living room wall, doing easily and without complaint what respectable bookcases have done for ages. So what if the back panel facing me is black instead of woodgrained. No-one would notice anything amiss except you and I, and I, for one, am determined to maintain silence on the matter.