"...covering Earth in forgetful snow..." (Eliot, "The Waste Land")

You have to act quickly to enjoy snow-covered New York City, as the white stuff becomes grey and then black pretty quickly. Thank goodness for instant digital photography! The lovely grisaille-appearing view was taken by a friend from her kitchen window this morning, and the other two are my own.

For some reason, there was an "Absolutely No Photography" sign in the little neighborhood park near me, but I committed a mini-criminal act by sticking my camera through the bars on the gate and shooting anyway. I don't think anyone saw me.

Lapsi Memoriae

Fortunately, most of my memory lapses concern trivia, usually movie titles. I’m ever grateful for the existence of imdb.com. (It also comes in handy when you absolutely can’t read the credits when the film is on TV.) Apparently sheer necessity enables me to remember credit card and bank account numbers, but not the name of the stage director husband of the actress I saw yesterday. And he directs a lot of opera, which means that I, especially, should remember his name! AARGH! This also goes for well-known musical selections. Sometimes the answers do finally float to the surface. I call this mental data retrieval.

I often have trouble remembering at least one of a list, e.g., the seventh dwarf or the ninth muse. For me, as a crossword addict, these are essential pieces of information. And, although I have hardly ever patronized any of them, I always forget one of the following three (not that it matters):

Callard and Bowser (former cookie company, now maker of Altoids)

Caswell-Massey (perfumes, soaps, toiletries)

Crabtree and Evelyn (same as above)

I mean, who cares anyway? I’d better make room in my overtaxed head for some really essential information. I guess all information is essential to me, though, relevant or not.

The Iconic and Legendary Santa Claus

Three words that I would like to see retired—at least temporarily—from the American English vocabulary are iconic; legendary; and my longtime bugbear, arguably. At least retire them from journalism and broadcasting. They now simply jump out to irritate me.

But, arguably, the most legendary and iconic wintertime figure is appearing in multiples all around us for the rest of this month. A parade of Santas, all of them young and slender, was trooping up Eighth Avenue when I was on my way to attend the HD viewing of the Met's magnificent Don Carlo, and another one was on the northbound E train when I was on my way home.

Santa Claus - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Anyway, I'm trying to make this the last time I use those three words—for a while, anyway.

Conveying Cute Canine

After an unpleasant transit experience—O.K., my wallet was recently stolen on the uptown #6 train—it was pleasant to encounter this little fellow on the downtown 104 Broadway bus. He was inquisitive, and very quiet until I started to get off at my stop. Then he let loose with the kind of yapping that only the smallest dogs seem capable of. I guess he resented the fact that someone, though not his master, was deserting him. For the record, this was "Change," a five-year-old Pomeranian.

P.S.: So far no identity theft re the wallet. And all credit and bank cards have now been replaced. I was the victim of a classic "light-fingered-Louie" on a very crowded train. Lesson learned.

Meleagris Gallopavo, to You!

With the approach of Thanksgiving, one can’t help having turkey come to mind. Though the golden-bronze roasted bird surrounded by all of its traditional accompaniments certainly looks appetizing on the festive platter, in actual fact—dare I commit such sacrilege to print?—the bird is pretty tasteless in and of itself. This also puts me in mind of the celebrated Wild Turkey painting by John James (né Jean-Jacques) Audubon, an American pioneer whom I revere, not only for his naturalist artwork but also for his picaresque life. As a kid, I received a large-format edition of his Birds of America, which I am proud to say I still possess, having given it a place of honor on my bookshelves. The excellent PBS series American Masters recently repeated their program about this fascinating figure.

Just as actual turkey meat isn’t really that tasty, the actual wild turkey (meleagris gallopavo, FYI) isn’t nearly as handsome as Audubon’s rendering has led one to imagine. I’ve had a number of up-close-and-personal encounters with these fellows, as they were always visiting near the picture windows of my mother’s last place of residence. They’re pretty bold and, regrettably, surprisingly ugly. They certainly don’t appear to be an endangered species, though they should be protected anyway, if only because of their sheer American-ness, second only, perhaps, to the beloved bald eagle.

South Bank Scenes

The South Bank house in London where Christopher Wren lived during the construction of St. Paul’s Cathedral has certainly been spruced up since I visited there briefly quite a few years back. Someone who rented a room on the top floor had to go down a couple of flights to use the single—at that time, anyway—bathroom. Perhaps, along with the sprucing, they have added at least one other. It’s right next door to the impressive Tate Modern museum, which was, at the time I paid my long-ago visit, the Bankside Power Station. And the picturesque Globe Theatre, which I have toured though have yet to see a performance in, on the other side of the Wren house, wasn’t there, either. You can arrive at these worthwhile sites by crossing the attractive, pedestrians-only Millennium Bridge. And while you’re on that side of the Thames, take a ride on the London Eye. It does not disappoint!

P.S.: Aha! Look what Googling can reveal! Apparently Christopher Wren never slept there, according to the BBC. (I guess George Washington never slept there, either.)

BBC NEWS | UK | Magazine | Christopher Wren never slept here

Some of Us Still Know "Who He"

Attended a dance film event last evening in a beautiful building across the street from the fabled Algonquin Hotel, of Round Table fame. It’s nice that there’s a commemorative plaque on the hotel façade memorializing Parker, Benchley, Woollcott, et al. And the building where my optometrist is located, one block north, has its own plaque, letting passers-by know that it is the former home of The New Yorker’s original offices. Thus it was just a short walk (or stagger) from the magazine to the writers’ favorite hangout. It makes one muse on 1) whether or not anyone reads these plaques anymore and 2) how many are left who either remember or at least know about Harold Ross and/or the Algonquin Round Table. I still like to write the Rossian “Who he?” in margins when I get the chance. Most people won’t “get it” anymore, but I do it for my own satisfaction.