A Journal of Humor and Verbal Anarchy

 
the passion of the Ez

Last night Ezra had a visit from the ghost of Victor Mature.

For those who don't know, Victor was the Grade B actor with the mature lips who played the Roman centurion in the 1950's blockbuster film, The Robe. Victor's real name was probably Vittorini Machiastti but his agent didin't think that was marquee enough. One look at Vittorini's Charles Atlas build with those fleshy arms and hairy chest, those amazing, babe-bruising labia, his polysaturated locks, well, it was a wrap for Victor Mature.

Victor was wearing a toga. He was a little gray around the temples and that sybaritic 50's B epic face of his had matured to the ripeness a week old grape. Still, Victor was possessed of that certain rococo charm that had propelled him into movie idol status, the heart throb of suburban housewives back in the days before McDonald's when they still packed spam sandwiches and a pickle in their husband's lunch boxes.

Victor wasn't a happy camper. He had snuck into a showing of Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ. If you're a ghost you don't have to pay full admission. You don't even have to show your license to get a Senior discount. You just show up and take what ever empty seat you want. Victor had sat through the entire movie and he wasn't pleased.

If you recall, Victor played the manly centurion whose path intersected with that of Jesus Christ's. He ended up holding Christ's robe at the crucifixion, an experience that changed his life and allowed him to bond romantically and spiritually with Jean Simmons who played an early Christian babe.

On this particular Saturday night in February, Victor's Italian temper was boiling over like Vesuvius. Back in the 50's, the director hadn't shown all the blood and gore that Mel Gibson chose to portray. The whole crucifixion scene was done very tastefully. In fact, you never once saw Christ. All you saw was the light suffusing Victor's face as he stood there in that forlorn black & white landsape, holding the robe. You knew that it was only a studio spotlight shining on him but you still got the message. Victor was pissed that Gibson had turned the whole thing into a Friday the 13th gorefest. All you needed was to have Judas show up in a hockey mask.

So after Ez got Mr. Mature calmed down with a little cappuchino and few stale biscotti, Ezra decided he needed to weigh in on the controversy surrounding Gibson's film.

Some critics claim that the Passion offends Jews. Others claim that Gibson tampered with the already tenuous historicity of Christ's last days. So, Ezra, without even having seen the movie, has decided to turn the whole controversy on its head. He decided to write his own movie script, the Passion of the Ez, depicting Ezra's psychological and physical abuse at the hands of cruel, vicious nuns from 1st to 5th grades , his narrow escape from moral degradation in the clutches of pediophile priests, his academic crucifixion under the insidious tutelage of Fr. Rushmore, his theology prof in college, a gnomic Irish Jesuit trained to ferret out and crush the first stirrings of intellectual curiousity. In the final scene of Ezra's movie, Ez gets a C in Theology 101 and knows that he will be branded for life, unable to rise to a leadership position in the Knights of Columbus, unable to date ex-nuns, unable to grasp the subtleness of his faith. Left behind. A catechetical mediocrity. Virtually a pagan baby. Doomed to experience existential shame every time he stuck $5.00 in the offering basket passed around during Mass to support the Church's ever-needy legal fund.

Victor Mature appeared to be in better spirits, no pun intended, when he snuck off to resume roaming the backlots of Hollywood. He was even noticed to be chuckling, those meaty lips curled in a satisfied smile. Balance had been restored. Here, he must have thought, was finally an epic story that not only told the gut-wrenching truth but also offended Catholics at the same time.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 8:12 AM

 
Politicos

Words slip in and out of usage like neckties, consigned for decades to a forgotten corner of the language closet , only to be retrieved and matched improbably with some new outfit. The retrofit is often tenuous at best. Like a Gen Z'er showing up in public wearing a tie with a black, heavy metal Goth-style, death head t-shirt or whatever. You get the picture. Ez has no idea what Gen Z'ers wear.

Take for example the expression "populism" which has mysteriously crept back into vogue for the 2004 political season. Populism conjures up the America of the 1890's, William Jennings Bryan, free silver, the excitement of massive outdoor political gatherings. Read Vachel Lindsey's poem "Bryan" for a time machine trip back to a more innocent era before tv and the internet.

Ezra just doesn't see what the pundits are talking about when they describe a sharp-tongued, stiff-necked former pill pusher from Vermont as a populist. Or, for that matter, a well-coiffed, old money Senator from Mass who's been riding the congressional golf cart to and from lunches with lobbyists for 15 years Who's the populist? Dennis Kucinich - who looks rather uncomfortable and not a little wooden in that ill-fitting hair piece, hobnobbing with Shirley Maclaine and the California incense and Roll Royce set? Do you know why Kucinich won the Hawaii primary? Because all the old hippies who made a fortune peddling tofu pups or natural ice cream at Grateful Dead concerts moved there so they could smoke a little weed out on the beach as the big sun goes down over the Pacific Ocean. Kucinich is a Ben & Jerry Democrat and now he can be a force at the convention with his 8 Aloha delegates.

It takes $120 million to be prez of these United States and no populist could raise that much money without kissing 1.2 million babies or shaking the same amount of hands and ending up in a full body cast with a bad case of diaper rash or muscular dystrophy.

Let's face it, the term populist doesn't fit anymore. According to Francis Fukuyama, we're at the end of history. The Cold War is over, the titanic struggle between Marxism and Capitalism for the hearts and souls of the masses is finito benito, the little guy doesn't matter anymore and everyone is plugged into some kind of electronic interface or other to get their marching orders from Wall St. or Hollywood.

It doesn't matter who you vote for. The election has already been decided and, quite frankly, no cares what you think about the issues. Chances are that if you're 40 or even 50 now, you won't be able to count on Social Security, no - you're have to work as a security guard at Wal-mart until the day you croak, or worse, you'll be picking cans and bottles out of dumpsters to afford your heart medication, or even worse, they'll just let you die because in the great Malthusian scheme of things, access to health care is the great population reducer. Retirement is going to be a luxury in 20 years. You should enjoy life now while you're still working. Take longer coffee breaks. Slack off. Take the week off.

So, be Era's guest. Get out there on your street corners, Ithacans, waving your little signs and banners at motorists. The Democratic primary in NY is Tuesday. Make a difference.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 6:28 AM

 
Walking mad cow blues

Ithaca knows how to throw a party. Yippie yi yeh, or something approximate, as Roy would say. Roy Rogers, that is.

If you were down on the Commons Saturday for the 7th Annual Chili Cook off, you saw Ithacans of all stripes and persuasions having fun. Giving the finger to the old bogeyman, Winter, turning up their collars against the vicissitudes of climate, shrugging off months of melatonin deprivation, turning the heat up a couple of btu by consuming gallons of fiery Ithaca style chili , hot enough to burn the whiskers off of a prarie dog.

Not.

Ez ran into a dude from New Mexico Saturday who complained that the lines in front of the concessions were too long.

"Having lived in the Southwest, I don't think I'd be impressed by the chili in Ithaca."

He opted for the Tofu stir fry at the Wok Hut or some similarly named establishment in Center Ithaca. You know, authentic Chinese cuisine. Served up in styrofoam containers by a girl from Tibet.

Why would an ice-locked town in upstate New York, a thousand miles away from the nearest poblano patch, famed more for its consumption of tofu than any particular love of heat seeking peppers, have a chili fesival? Does Potsdam have a lo mein festival? Does Syracuse have a taco bake-off? Have you ever heard of Albequerue celebrating Baked Potato Day? So, the idea of having a chili fest with a mechanical bull that looks like it was assembled from rusted Volvo parts , in the middle of February with snow still covering the benches on the Commons, seems like a bit of a disconnect, doesn't it?

And what about Mad Cow Disease?

From what Ez could tell, most of the folks on the Commons Saturday , migrating happily from concession to concession , were not particularily interested in checking out the ingredients of what was being slopped into their styrofoam cups. Hey, it's 30 degrees out here, every ten minutes it starts hailing, and there's beef in some of that chili, folks. You know, beef shipped in from parts unknown, like - Washington State; beef that might have been stored in some deep hoary freezer from before the FDA started clamping down. Do you know where your beef has been?

Oops. But look on the bright side, Ithacans. At least, we don't have a Chicken Barbeque Festival. So, no one's going to be coming down with bird flu anytime soon.

Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 6:40 AM

 
Authority figure


Ez has spent more time than anyone, possibly more than any other single individual in the whole of human history, pondering the eternal question...

What makes Ithaca suck?

Do you know anyone else who's spent $200 of his own beer money to register a domain name and develop a web site titled Ithacasucks,com, a site that has been visited by a total of 4 people in 12 months, two of whom took a wrong turn trying to reach a porn site crammed with naked teenage sluts performing fellatio on viagra engorged NASCar drivers.

Do you know anyone else who has experienced hair loss, waking up at 5 am every day for 6 months to write a daily blog named thacasucks.blogspot.com? No, you don't. So please give Ezra his due. He's an authority on what makes Ithaca suck. These are the days when folks lie about their credentials all the time, claiming to have been in the Alabama Air National Guard when they they were in fact campaigning for fat cat cotton barons or pork belly moguls running for Congress in Tuskegee.

You know where Ez has been. Connecting the dots. Doing the math. Experiencing the pain. Figuring out why Ithaca sucks. Like any self-respecting authority who's ever hung out his shingle or stuck a diploma on the wall, Ez has even developed a lingo of his own, to befuddle and bedazzle the customer. Here's a brief glossary of terms.

Suck-dom - the state of sucking or alternately the place where sucking occurs.

Suck-hood -the feeling of being in the state of suck-dom, looking from the inside out , sort of like being encased in jello.

Suck-iness - the quality of sucking.

Suck-ination - the total gestalt of sucking, the whole enchilada as it were, rhymes with alienation .

Suck-erama a place where you can go to immerse yourself three -dimensionally in suck-dom- like standing on the Commons.

Suck-meter - a tool developed by Ezra to measure suck-hood.

Suck theory - the critical and analytical assumptions underlying the study
of suck-hood.

So why does Ithaca suck?


There is no easy answer to the question, no single explanation - no one theory that can explain the existential experience of suck-dom, the depths of suck-iness, the inevitability of suck-hood, the torment of suck-ritude, the anguish of suck-rioasis that one experiences spending time in Ithaca.

Ez has even tried to deconstruct the question. What is Ithaca? Is it a small college town in upstate New York living off of 40,000 college students? Is Ithaca a state of mind, a mode of being, that state of being-without, or is it being within? The experience of being -within the state of being-without? Cavafy believes that ithaka is the journey, not the destination. The journey that shouldn't be rushed ; in the poem of that name, ithaka is a metaphor for life. But did he ever live in Ithaca, New York?

And, anyway, what do we mean by the word suck? We suck our mothers' milk, we suck milkshakes through a straw, we suck-up to our bosses to get a raise. How does this pleasurable experience translate into something totally opposite , the horrible experience of gagging, choking, gasping for air, the feeling of being stuck like a bottle fly on a flypaper runway?

These are all very deep questions. Like any self-respecting authority on anything that's worth knowing, Ez charges by the hour. Send your checks to ithacasucks.com.

He doesn't take credit cards.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:59 AM

 
Your father's politics

Hey, man, what's to become with "Generation Dean" when the Doctor throws in the proverbial towel next week and goes back to making skads of cash, prescribing little purple pills? Hell, with his newly won name brand recognition, he'll be endorsing those little purple pills on tv, for christsakes. Maybe start a diet craze, manufacture dietetic donuts, sign a big fat contract with KFC to push Dr. Dean's heart-friendly chicken wings.

But what's to happen to all those college students who got suckered into believing for a brief shining momnet that they could actually 'take back the White House' or 'make a difference'? You know, cyberdemocracy, teen populism, rah,rah. They swarmed over Iowa and New Hampshire, made signs, attended rallies, worked the phones, e-mailed until their brains fell out, networking far into the wee hours of the morning. No time even for downloading MP3 files let alone for sex. They propelled the Doctor into front runner status, got him on the cover of Time, turned Dr, Dean into an instant American icon.

Suddenly, their father's politics roared out of the garage like a turbo-charged 2004
Cadillac DeVille. The big haired Democratic senator from Mass, swimming in a tidal wave of catsup money, flush with all the political credit earned from 18 years of smoozing with lobbyists, doing favors for insurance companies and corporate interests. Hell, look at the skyline of Boston. How many billions of dollars worth of bacon did Sen. Kerry bring back to his home state, transforming Bean Town into a yuppie Shang-ri-la? Compare that to the Doc's record as guv of the Ben & Jerry state. Signing the nation's first civil union legislation may have helped the justice of the peace industry, filled up some motel rooms now and again with honeymooners, but we're not talking about bringing home Big Macs with Bacon here. We're talking about a lousy pint of Rocky Road ice cream. The $40 million Doc Dean collected from small donors on the internet wouldn't even fill up one of the bathrooms in John Kerry's political mansion.

Hey, don't feel so bad. Generation Dean. Every generation gets lied to. All the new kids on the block start out by chasing cardboard heroes, pop icons, instant -whipped Messiahs from the Cracker Jack box of history. Look at the 60's generation, for christsakes. Your father's generation. They worshipped at the shrines of big haired millionaire Democats, muttering the mantras of 'ask not what your country can do for you.' and 'you can make a difference.' A couple of assassin's bullets later, they eventually did fall into line and accept the status quo. The guys who dominated the scene back then, during this period of so-called political adulthood, were all old fogies from their dads' generations - guys who had served in WW2, gone to Washington as political freshmen back in the McCarthy era, paid their dues in the CIA, or in Hollywood - you know, guys who had worked the ropes.

So, Generation Dean, Ez's advice is to go home, hit the books, get well-paying jobs and settle down until you can afford a real presidential candidate of your own.

Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:52 AM

 
StarPigeon's journey to the land of shadows

He listened to the distant rumble of steam shovels from afar. The crisp, cold air of the forest amplified every sound, even the careless dropping of a redeemable can in the woods, or that particular crunching noise that a $175.00 pair of Nikes made on dry leaves. StarPigeon was perfectly attuned to everything that was happening around him; his senses tingled with the sharpness of the hunter, fused with the lingering warmth of a container of Gimme coffee that he had downed prior to adjusting his head dress and entering the sacred domain of the Ancients.

They were digging in the place of the Elders, constructing a new 100,000 sq ft. Home Depot. StarPigeon glared in the direction of the machines whose metal claws were tearing at the hard pine-needle flecked ground once traversed by the Seers, the Gatherers and the legendary delivery men of the Cayuga Nation. His heart ached at the plunder and despoliation of this natural paradise, at the rapacity of the developers , the politicans and Chinese Buffet builders. Just that moment, he heard the familiar chirp of his cell phone going off. StarPigeon had programmed the ring to resemble the sound of a whippoorwill so as not to disturb the placid stillness of the forest.

"Pidgey, is that you?"

"Yes." His eyes followed the journey of a hawk as it glided above the tree line.

"Don't forget that you have to take the Explorer in for a brake alignment."

StarPigeon scowled. He was upset that StarSparrow would choose this time, knowing that he was communicating with the Spirits of the Old Ones, to bother him over something as mundane as the brakes on the Explorer.

"Ok. Anything else?"

"You've got an appointment with the acupuncturist at 2. "

"Ok."

"Honey?"

"Yes?" StarPigeon was fighting back the annoyance that he sensed was creeping into his voice.

"Don't forget to pick up the Tofu Lasagna at Greenstar. And a bottle of wine. The Reiks's are coming over tonight."

StarPigeon snapped his cell phone shut and shoved it deep into the pocket of his synthetic buckskin jacket. He glanced around the stand of trees dully. The moment of deep communion with the Ancients was gone. It was time to re-enter the fallen world of man again, the world of laptops, fax machines, dentist drills, SUV's teeming down Rt 13 towards the mall, nanotechnology, dinners with boring colleagues who knew nothing of the secret world he shared with the spirits of the forest.

He was StarPigeon. He lived in two worlds. One day he would turn his back on the world of brake alignments and office cubicles. He would allow his hair to grow longer, throw his cell phone into Cayuga Lake, exchange the ho hum life of a financial analyst at Smith Barney for the more alluring path of a seeker.

Then again, maybe he'd cash in his 401K and open up a canoe rental.


More later on the adventures of StarPigeon, alternative Ithacan, exclusively at Ithacasucks. Blogspot.com
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 2:37 PM

 
Greenstar

(To be sung to the tune of Downtown)

When you're progressive
shopping makes you obsessive
you can always head to Green -star,
there the veggies are fresher
and you don't feel the pressure
At Green-star.

Just listen to the banter of the workers at the deli,
you'll be loading up on goodies to fill your belly,
how can you go wrong?

The chicken's' are happier there.
part of the family there , so forget all your cares,
Green -star, get it organic there
Green -star, it's all natural there.
Greenstar, you belong there now.
Greenstar,
Greenstar.

Shopping at Tops
ya' get genetically altered crops,
you wouldn't get- at greenstar
too many preservatives,
too many conservatives,
You'll never get at green-star/
They'll remember
you're a member, never have to doubt it.
Everyone will want to know
you shop at Greenstar market.
Greenstar.


find different ways - to make yummie greens,
oh, you'll never get tired of eating beans,
at green-star
you can visit the salad bar.
At Green-star.

Tofu's much more inviting,
buying in bulk is just more exciting
greenstar, you never see a national brand.
greenstar, you can lend a helping hand,
greenstar, it's more like a way of life now.
Greenstar, greenstar. greenstar
Greenstar. Fade out.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 5:55 AM

 
Ithaca Sucks The Board Game

What people are saying about Ithaca's new board game -

"Finally there's something more exciting than shopping on the Commons. "
Ali Ali Kahn, Father of the Pakistani Atomic Bomb

"A game the whole family can play! Even dysfunctional families like ours" Michael Jackson, entertainer and alleged child molester.

"Recommended by 6 out of 8 acupuncturists and Reiki instructors! " Suhill Karma Smith, Holistic Healer

Are you ready to play? Put on your best game face, a Dennis Kucinich button, grab a fistful of Ecstasy cigarettes, some organic potato chips and a liter of bottled water and let's play Ithaca Sucks.

Imagine this! You've picked the blue Volvo as your game piece. Now you're at Start, itching to roll the dice and begin your personal adventure through the byways and crawl spaces of I -town. You roll a double 3 and land on the Seneca St. Parking garage. Oops! You have to shell out $15 to park. Tough luck. Try again.

You roll again, this time a 4 and a 6. Now you're moving! You land on See-Spot Gallery on the Commons and have to pick a card. You're informed that you're a struggling Gen-Y artist, living in a roach infested apartment with 17 other struggling Gen-T artists. The apartment is owned by Jason Fane who owns hundreds of other roach infested apartments rented by struggling Gen-Y artists and dishwashers. Before you can play again, you have to produce artwork priced under $15.00 that appeals to welfare recipients and other Gen-Y artists. Hey, that's life! Not fazed in the slightest, you start doodling furiously, trying to reproduce a sunrise in Hell on the back of a Nine's poster.

Ready to play again, you roll a 3 and a 2, which lands you in Parking Court. Ouch! You have to fork out $4,500 to pay for all your old parking tickets going back to 1972. What the fuck! You elect to do Community Service for a year, hosing down the sidewalks in front of Simeon's where all the college students practice precision puking after loading up on Captain Myer's and coke.

When you roll again, you shoot a pair of 5's and zig-zag around the board until you land on - no, not the Mate Factor. Anything but the Mate Factor! The little pink card reads, " You've been indoctrinated into a cult started by an Arkansas con artist who, incidentally, is not Bill Clinton. You have to let your hair grow, sleep on the hardwood floor of a racket ball court and work 15 hours a day at one of the cult's restaurants, busing tables and squeezing limes. At night, you have to copy passages from Jeremiah on to place mat settings.

Finally, you roll a 7, lucky 7. Whow. You've just won $75,000 in Ithaca Hours. Your luck has finally turned. Then you figure out that absolutely no business in Ithaca accepts more than $5.00 in Ithaca Hours for any given purchase. You can buy 15,000 tofu salads at Greenstar on 15,000 separate occasions or you can use your funny money to patch the holes in your car's upholstery.

Having fun yet?

Learn how you can help Ez design this exciting new entry in the world of board games. E-mail him now with your ideas and suggestions. He's getting lonely!

Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:12 AM

 
her honor

Ez has some free advice for Ithaca's first woman mayor as she begins her second month in office. Free, because no one is stupid or politically suicidal enough to hire Ez as a paid political advisor - the equivalent of hiring the Taliban to run security for the Super Bowl. Maybe Ez should volunteer his services to the Howard Dean campaign The media is now writing poor Howard off after he's spent $40 million of someone else's money to collect how many delegates?? At this point, he's running neck to neck with Al Sharpeton and Dennis Kucinich and they've been carpooling in a big blue Baptist van with "Jesus Saves" stencilled on the side, eating at Subway's along the campaign route. Al saves a lot of money on sit down meals because, even though it's 2004, a black man still can't get served at Denny's. Together Al and Dennis have spent around $175.00 including pocket comb replacements. On to Wisconsin.

Carolyn Peterson has so far avoided some of the pitfalls of the previous administration. She hasn't tried to shut down any African American businesses downtown and she hasn't been caught living in the basement apartment of a waterfront saloon owner trying to get a zoning waiver from the city. She's spent all her time in meetings - the one thing Carolyn really excels at. She was elected because she has more experience at meetings than all the other candidates.

Incidentally, this blog is pure filler, absolute fluff, intellectual dandruff, mental hamburger helper because Ez is experiencing temporary writer's block. It's hard to bounce off things when there's nothing to bounce off of. How does the ithaca urinal do it? Can you imagine filling a whole newspaper 6 days a week in a place like ithaca? A couple of days ago they scraped rock bottom with a feature on the local pizza industry. A reporter even accompanied a couple of clueless pizza delivery guys up to collegetown on their appointed Super Bowl rounds. We only delivered 4 pizzas, dude. What the fuck is going on? What's next? A day in the life of a UPS driver?

So, look, Carolyn. Here's a couple of do and do not's to chomp on, call it meddling, call it sage advice, call it whatever you will but know that, despite your strong authoritarian bent and otherwise nasty disposition, there are people out there who want you to succeed despite yourself.

So, first - avoid ribbon cuttings at establishments run by cults that depend on child labor. Your appearance at the Mate Factor's gala opening will come back to haunt you when the first teenager from a nice Cayuga Heights family with money gets brainwashed, changes his name to Moses and goes to work, busing tables at Home Dairy.

Second, avoid getting your picture taken with Syracuse gangsters qua contractors like Cimminelli. One day, the hotel he's building downtown may collapse because he cut too many corners with the concrete. Or people may get tired of gorges and start jumping off the roof. Anyway, you don't look so great in a construction hard hat or holding a shovel, for that matter. It would help at least if you turn the shovel around.

Three, this no politiican left behind thing of yours is a little bit too clubby. You hired Marty Luster to work part-time for $40,000 a year but you didn't bother to throw a crumb Beau Saul's way. You trounced the poor guy thoroughly in the election but he is still a police lieutenant and you may find a ticket on your car every time you try to park in Ithaca.

Finally, it would help if you were seen downtown once and a while. Buying something. You know, a bong pipe or second hand blouse or what have you. Maybe you're afraid you'll slip on the ice left over from the last storm. Well, it's probably a safer bet to shop at the Mall. You'll run into more Ithaca voters, won't get a parking ticket, and don't need ice skates to get around.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:43 AM

 
Teradactyl day

It's Groundhog Day, for crying out loud.

Well, we should be crying out loud, or maybe crying in our beer or just softly weeping for that matter, because, fact is, Ithaca doesn't have a groundhog of its own. We also don't have caravans of buses and cars loaded with tourists, all carrying credit cards and ready cash, clogging Rts 96, 79 and 13. flocking to town to see a cute, fuzzy, world famous meteorological mammal.

That means we'll have six or sixty or 600 hundred more years of empty store fronts, a flagging retail economy, a deserted Commons, rising property taxes. You name it. Depending on whether you're an inborn pessimist or just in denial.

No groundhog, no tourist bucks. Simple as that. Gorges don't cut it. Only retired people from Iowa, who are suffering from post-primary depression, would travel 500 miles to see a gorge. And a lot of them simply stay home because they're afraid of slipping and falling off the cliff face of one of 'em cute little gorges.

Let's face it. Punxsutawney hires better consultants than Ithaca. There's a consultant gap. Ithacans paid how much to a consulting firm last year only to be told that we needed a winter festival to stimulate the local economy. So what do we get? The Festival of Light. Do you know anyone who actually attended the Festival of Light? The first mistake that was made was putting Barbara Mink, former country executive, in charge of planning for the event. In an earlier time, Barbara Mink would have worn a pink pillbox Oleg Cassini hat. Just like Jackie Kennedy. We're talking high brow now. We're talking high priestess of culture.
Arbiter of taste. We're not talking about the kind of person likely to schedule wet tee shirt contests, tractor pulls or the kind of stuff likely to draw crowds.

Ez has scoured all the local newspapers for details of the much touted Light in Winter festival to find that the highbrows managed to keep the entire affair so hushed that only a single news feature appeared, describing a chamber music concert at PRI. You know, up at dinosaur land. Imagine that. The general population, meaning us lowbrows, were kept completely in the dark about the Festival of Light. Does that smack of cultural elitism or what?

What Ithaca needs is another Cardiff Giant. Back in 1869, a couple of workmen digging a well in Cardiff, New York, 10 miles north of Syracuse, uncovered a ten foot, 2 ½ inch gypsum statue. The discovery sparked a frenzy of interest, not to mention, controversy. Visitors from all over the country flocked to Cardiff to view this either priceless artifact of prehistoric American civilization, or fossilized remans of a race of a giants, depending on who you listened to. Theologians used the occasion as a pulpit to to rail against the evils of Darwinism. A syndicate of businessmen from Syracuse raised $50,000 to promote the colossus as a tourist attraction. It was uncovered three months later than the statue was a hoax planted by a Binghamton cigar maker to revive his dwindling fortunes. A copy of the Cardiff Giant ended up in P.T. Barnum's museum of oddities. Andrew White, first president of Cornell and known high brow, looking back at the whole episode in his memoirs, decried the hoax as a symptom of American civilization gone awry. He hoped that newly established citadels of institutional and scientific authority, read Cornell, would provide a corrective to the money making Big Top huskterism of the Gilded Age.

What the Cardiff Giant did for that tiny hamlet in upstate New York, what the beguiling marmot does annually for Punxsutawney, a well-placed teradactyl or other Saurian beauty could easily do for Ithaca. Forget the light wands and the chamber music. Plant a tantalizing fossil or two, or better, a full sized, extant, meat eating, specimen, roaming the wilds of Dryden, feeding on squirrels and poodles. Even a turkey in a dinosaur costume would suffice for the more gullible.

Then find out if it sees its shadow.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 2:23 PM

 
Mars on Earth

What do you think about all this Mars crap? Do you really care a gnat's ass that NASA sent two, not one, we're talking two mega-million dollar probes to the red planet? Are we talking redundancy here or we talking sex? Is NASA planning an eventual linkup? Will Rover find Opportunity, will they wag mechanical tails in recognition, sniff each other's after burners, fall in love? Machine sex has long been on the drawing board, the Mount Everest of cybernetics, ever since scientists first slapped a mechanical arm together with a DieHard battery. That's why robots have male and female parts, dummy.

Really now, can you explain why a president who has shown no interest to date in advancing science, beyond accelerating the process of global warming, embraced this bizarre dream of landing a man on Mars? To divert attention from a $400 billion budget deficit? To draw attention away from the spiraling body count in Iraq? Or to steal the Dem's thunder during primary season? (After all, it was a big hair Democrat who kicked off the US space program in the first place, got Americans excited about moon rockets and re-entry vehicles.)

Hell, there's no oil on Mars, is there?

Our very own Cornell scientists are puffing their chests, basking in the media attention over their part in the Mars mania. Go Cornell. We're not just ag tech, you know. Hey, why would folks living in one of the most inhospitable spots on this planet want to explore a place as forbidding as Mars? They could just walk out their door and find more ice than you could possibly ever find on Pluto or Uranus or wherever you'd travel in the universe, more forlorn, desolate, lunar-looking landscapes, more space cadets per square foot, more people living under rocks, more alien intelligences than you could pack into a Stephen Spielberg film. After all, Carl Sagan probably got the idea for Contact in Ithaca, Rod Serling moved here to embrace the weirdness of it all. Planet Ithaca.

So what is Rover supposed to be doing on Mars? Looking for water on the Red Planet, right? First, Cornell scientists figure out how to suck Cayuga Lake up to campus in a giant straw, now they're looking for even more H2O. What gives?

If you really stop to think about it., this Mars thing has potentially deep psychological overtones. Buried somewhere in the American subconscious is a profound fear, a deep-seated mistrust of the Red Planet. How many times in books and movies has America been invaded by little silly putty-shaped , green men from Mars? First, they landed in New Jersey back in the 30's. Then, in Mars Attacks, they had the audacity to zap the President and First Lady.

Hey, not to worry. George Bush believes in pre-emptive strikes. He'll fix their sorry butts, America. Maybe Osama bin Ladin's been hanging in a cave on Mars. They got Al-Quaeda, WMD, Martian fundamentalists, little green men who look like Saddam Hussein, the whole works. Now you know why George sees Red. Charge!
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:37 AM