Language Follies 10 (Past, Present, Future)

The Past

Not long ago, I submitted the following anecdote to the New York Times for inclusion in its Metropolitan Diary feature. The Times has not chosen to use it; in fact, it did not even acknowledge receipt. The Times’ loss is the blog’s gain.

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In 1991 I was flying home from Argentina with a question that I needed an answer to. I had read in the Buenos Aires Herald, the Argentine English language newspaper, a one-sentence item in the sports section stating that Frank Cashen was no longer the general manager of the New York Mets. 

When I hopped into a cab at JFK airport, after giving the driver my destination, I asked, “Frank Cashen: did he jump or was he pushed?” 

The cabbie turned to me and went “Huh?”

I knew then that if a cabbie could not discuss baseball, it was a new New York.

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The Present

I feel as if I am caught in a whirlwind of importunity. Consider the recent contents of my mailbox:        

I want to sit here, but I am pressed to act, to do something—if merely to take notice of tax information. Could it be that the saving of the world is dependent upon what the USPS places in my mailbox?

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The Future

The last time I looked it was the middle of February 2024. 

But probably not everywhere in the sports world.

Sportsnet up in Canada is on speed dial; they have been projecting team rosters for an international hockey tournament that is scheduled for 2025. 

Meanwhile, The Athletic at the New York Times, only two days after the conclusion of the 2023-24 season with the Super Bowl, was “Ranking Every N.F.L. Team From First to Worst as the Offseason Begins.” The Chiefs and the ‘Niners have barely toweled off, but the pundits have their rankings primed for September. 

Haven’t these sports prognosticators ever heard about water flowing under the bridge? Lots will happen between now and then. 

But, really, it’s all Hollywood. I used to regularly read the columns of the hockey gossipers (including the one who I have dubbed “the Hedda Hopper of Hockey”). Incredibly, despite their jockeying to be first to break news of signings and trades and such, they were mostly just wild speculators. I realized that they were the sports equivalent of heyday Hollywood. So now I mostly ignore them.

However, I guess they have to fill up space. 

Who do you fancy will be on the Finnish team at the Four Nations Faceoff next February? 

Language Follies 9

I Never Said I was Perfect

I made a big boo-boo on a recent blog post: I entitled the piece “In Folly Rank, In Reason Rotten.” I was relying on my memory of Sir Walter Raleigh’s satirical response, “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd,” to Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.” My memory let me down, as I suddenly realized a few days after posting that Raleigh wrote, “In folly ripe . . .” “Ripe” contrasting with “rotten”—perfect sense. I have since corrected the post.

However, I must say that in retrospect I am disappointed that none of my well-read readers were able to spot my error and correct me. 

Here are the texts of the two poems:

“The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

                            ^

“The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd”

If all the world and love were young,

And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,

When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb,

The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,

To wayward winter reckoning yields,

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,

The Coral clasps and amber studs,isted

All these in me no means can move

To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,

Had joys no date, nor age no need,

Then these delights my mind might move

To live with thee, and be thy love.

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Today’s Wisdom of the Wall

“Sleep to Perform”

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As we all know, Amazon is the master of everything—or maybe not. Here’s what I recently discovered when I visited Amazon’s INTERNATIONAL FOOD MARKET, which claims:

In a world full of flavor, there's so much to explore. Our international food store has ingredients and packaged foods including snacks, candies, and noodles from around the world that will help you add some global flavor to your next meal.

I clicked on 

and got as the first four entries:

a veritable United Nations of confections, n’est pas?

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When I’m not in the year 2024, I am immersing myself in the past via the archives of The New Yorker. I am finishing up the year 1953, and as I noted in an earlier post, it’s like living in the present—the same nonsense that existed then we have all over again.

Consider (from the Feb. 28, 1953 issue): 

The idiotic and childish refusal of members of the Republican Party to call their opposition by its rightful name isn’t something that was spawned by Tea Partyish crackpots; it goes back seventy years (at least) and was a feature of the parole of the Secretary of State in the Eisenhower administration. 

Speaking of the Eisenhower presidency, in its Oct. 31, 1953 issue The New Yorker reported the following:

And some seventy years later, other Protestant ministers claim that Donald Trump has been ordained by God to resolve the country’s and the world’s problems. The message wire from the Deity is a bit staticky.

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The early ‘50s were hardly paradisiacal. There were the red scares, and the threat of nuclear annihilation hung over everyone’s head. But in at least one way the earlier age was better. Here is The New Yorker’s reflection after the 1952 election:

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Update:

The morning after I posted the above blog, this showed up on Huffpost:

Donald Trump on Thursday shared a post on his Truth Social platform in which Academy Award winner Jon Voight declared the former president had been “ridiculed” and “destroyed as Jesus.”

Voight, a longtime follower of the four-times-indicted Trump, claimed the Republican 2024 front-runner “has been targeted for his information that can knock down the corrupt swamp” and is “the only man that can destroy the negative propaganda that has been sworn into this office.”

“Can he be saved with the American people who believe in God’s glory? Can we save our nation from the dark cloud that has been put upon our life’s dreams? Yes,” the “Midnight Cowboy” star continued. “Because Joshua promised the land of hospitality and his sword of righteousness. Fought the battles left and right. The battles of right and wrong.”

“Believe,” Voight later urged. “That the man that can help this nation, the one man that was ridiculed, destroyed as Jesus, Trump, can come back and save the American dream for all. And make America great with the dignity, with the power of who she is.”