If you get caught between the moon and...

Took the dog out for a last run on Wednesday night and saw something I had never seen before. It genuinely surprised me. 

Let me preface this by reminding everyone that I grew up in the friendly confines of the five boroughs, and between the frequent rainy weather and the fog off the ocean and the light pollution and the pollution pollution it was often hard to see anything in the night sky. So astronomy never had much pull for me. The teacher would get excited about an upcoming eclipse, and the students would be like -- You think my parents are going to let me stand on the sidewalk at 3:46 a.m. to watch this? So only the dedicated far-out space nuts went in for serious astronomical stuff. 

But what I saw last Wednesday made me smile, and if you saw it too, maybe it did the same. 

At first I noticed the brightness -- full moon, fast-moving scrim of patchy clouds above. Very nice. Then I saw a little dot very close to the moon, less than a quarter inch from it by my vantage point. I knew that was odd, since starlight is not bright enough to be seen that close to the moon (right? Remember, knows nothing). Then I noticed that the dot was red, and realized it was Mars. 

That's right -- we were about to have a lunar eclipse, or more properly an occultation, of the planet Mars. While Izzy was fussing around looking for a place to go, I was looking at what seemed like a neck-and-neck footrace. With the clouds flying fast, it looked like the moon and Mars were racing hard against each other. But no, they were on a collision course. 

I read later that Mars was exceptionally bright, at its closest point to Earth in the year, and the so-called Cold Moon of December was definitely brilliant. I'd never seen this before, and the next one isn't until January 2025, and probably won't be this great a light show. 

Unfortunately, the cell phone camera speed isn't fast enough to get good pictures of celestial stuff. 

Here in the Northeast, the race went on until after my sack time. Apparently there was a pretty bad collision, because I hear that as of today there's no life on the moon or Mars. (har har) 

In the morning, the sky was clear and the two celestial bodies had gone their separate ways. Now there was about half an inch between them and growing. Well, without sounding paganistic, I'd like to hope that maybe with the moon blocking us from the god of war for a few hours, we could get a little extra peace on Earth this Christmastime. 

That's what passed for exciting around here on Wednesday, and I have to say, it's not bad. You can read about these things, but it's always more fun to see them for yourself. And if you stumble upon them by accident, it's pure serendipity. 

Wildflower myths.

If you grew up anywhere where there was grass -- and yes, in the outer boroughs of New York we had lawns -- you undoubtedly heard some floral myths in your childhood gatherings with the other knuckleheaded kiddos. The best known one is probably that you can make a wish while blowing the seeds off the white top of the dandelion. 

Well, you can make a wish, but don't expect a response. Wishes don't come true, kids! Wishes are stupid! All you did was spread those stupid weeds around some more. Thanks a lot.

I have enough dandelions on the lawn this year to make a billion wishes, and as they say, if wishes were fishes, we'd be up to our necks in herring. Or something like that.

Somewhat less common myths about the flowers on my vast estate include the following:

BUTTERCUP

The dumb myth about the buttercup is that if you hold it up to your chin and it reflects a yellow glow, that means you like butter. Well, duh. Everyone likes butter. Even vegans like butter, although they think it's bad for the cows and maybe us. I'm surprised when I recall being afraid the buttercup would turn my chin yellow and expose my illicit butter love to the world. The way my old man ate butter (half a stick or more per corn on the cob, please) (and he was rail-thin), a buttercup would have made him look completely yellow if there was any truth to the myth.

There may have also been some myth about the buttercup revealing your true love, but that was definitely girl stuff and, in those days, girls were known by the CDC to be infected by cooties. Although the nice ones maybe not so much. And the cute ones.

HONEYSUCKLE

The myth here was that if you picked the flower, bit off just a tip at the end, and sucked on the flower, it would taste like honey. It does not taste like honey. It tastes like a flower. It's not bad, but it's not honey. Fortunately the flowers are not poisonous, and are in fact edible. 

Clearly the confusion exists because of the name, but the name really means what it says. Merriam-Webster says it originated from "Middle English honysoukel clover, alteration of honysouke, from Old English hunisūce, from hunig honey + sūcan to suck," so it's been in the mix all the time. It still doesn't taste like honey.

Kids would pretend to like the taste of the flower, but the flowers don't taste like much. It was a sort of gang obedience, wee tots' peer pressure. "Yeah, it's delicious!" Eh, not so much. But sometimes it's easier to pretend and go do something more fun than to disagree and start an argument.

I sometimes think that in the story of the emperor's new clothes, the kid who sees that the emperor is naked wouldn't necessarily shout the fact, but would instead strip down to his birthday suit and yell "Lookit me! I'm an emperor, too!" and go marching after him. I knew a few kids like that. I think some of the adults I know now would do that, actually.

⚘🎕⚘🎕⚘🎕⚘🎕⚘🎕⚘🎕

Those are a couple of myths about backyard plants of which I know. Got any of your own? Share them in comments!

No state income tax, you know.

Penelope and Odysseus.

Penelope: So where have you been?

Odysseus: Oh, such a long and strange tale it is to tell, my dearest wife, my --

P: You said you'd be right back.

O: Well, Achilles said the Trojans would be a pushover, and --

P: YOU WERE GONE FOR TWENTY YEARS!

O: Now, now, my pet, I never said I was just going to the corner to get a quart of milk.

P: No, you said you had a thing with the boys and would nip out to get Helen back and --

O: It got complicated. The fighting went on and on. And that was just on our side. Achilles flounced off like a drama queen. Gods got involved...  I even had to build this big wooden horse, you see, because after Achilles killed Hector the Trojans still wouldn't give up, so --

P: Horse? Wooden horse? You vanish for two decades and you want to talk about wooden horses? What kind, rocking horses? This is no time for toys.

O: Honey, please! You know I didn't want to go in the first place. I tried to get a Section 8 deferral but they didn't buy it.

P: You know something, Oddy? Everyone else came back ten years ago. Neoptolemus has been back all that time. Diaphorus's wife, Bernice, she said she's sick of him hanging around. But me, I get the only husband who can't leave a siege and find his way home. I just know you refused to ask for directions. AS USUAL.

O: It wasn't my fault, I swear! It was the stupid crew! We had this big windbag --

P: Yeah, I know about Ajax.

O: No, I mean a literal bag of winds, and my stupid crew opened it up and we shot off all over the place.

P: Smartest man in Greece and he hires morons for a crew.

O: Yeah, well. They're all dead now.

P: That's supposed to make me feel better? So some winds blew you around, so what? The Mediterranean isn't that big, you know.

O: Oh, sweetie pie, you can hardly believe all the places we had to go. We were brutalized by the Laestrygonians, trapped by a Cyclops, threatened by Sirens, drugged by some damn hippie Lotus-Eaters, captured by Circe...

P: CIRCE? That witch is the biggest floozy in the ancient world! Were you canoodling with her, you creep?

O: Well, n... that is, I mean to say... uh... Can I take the Fifth?

P: Next thing you'll tell me you were getting all cuddly with Calypso!

O: Um.

P: You didn't!

O: Oh, and we had to sail between Scylla and Charybdis!

P: Who are they, more babes?

O: Not, uh, anymore. They're kind of the biggest metaphor in the ocean. Look, I know all those suitors were giving you a hard time, but I really did get home as fast as I could. And didn't Telemachus and I take care of business? We slaughtered every single one!

P: It was nice to see you two having fun together.

O: See? Me and my boy!

P: You one Hades of a mess for me, though.

O: Yeah, sorry.

P: You never built Telemachus a rocking horse.

O: I know, I know... I was an absentee dad. Missed his whole childhood. But it was Achilles's fault. And we didn't beat Troy with a rocking horse. Baby, listen...

P: Don't "baby" me, hubby, I'm sick of your stories. You're back, that's fine. But I've been running the show in Ithaca for twenty years and I don't need you sticking your nose in, get it? You can sit back and king it up if you want, but stay on your side of the palace. And don't go sailing anywhere.

O: Yes, yes, I understand, Penelope. (sighs) If you need me, I'll be in the study. Al Tennyson is due at noon for an interview.

P: You'd better not embarrass me!

O: Yeah, yeah...

P: And I don't want you talking to that Jimmy Joyce character!

O: That nut? I hear he eats lotus.

Fizzy, freaky.

A couple of months back I reviewed the unusual children's seltzer offered by my nearest supermarket, a 7.5-ounce can in bubble gum flavor. Which I did find to have a good taste of bubble gum and to be appropriately refreshing. I don't know if the kiddies really like it, but then, I think they encounter more things that taste like bubble gum than actual bubble gum these days.

Anyway, following that post, I had a request from an anonymous reader to get some of said seltzer up on eBay, because Anonymous wished to purchase some and the brand, Nature's Promise, is a house brand for Giant and Stop & Shop supermarkets in the northeast, where I assume my unnamed friend does not live. Unfortunately I don't have an eBay account, nor do I know how to properly ship fizzy drinks. I imagined a box full of water by the time it got anywhere, the cans having exploded en route. The best I could do was see if any of the national brands had something comparable, and I did find something. Sorta.

Polar Seltzer is a fine brand of beverages, mostly seltzer but lots of good standard sodas as well, like ginger ale and cream soda. They make a lot of flavored seltzer, including flavor blends that are quite nice (strawberry watermelon, cranberry lime, blueberry lemonade, etc.). I had read that they made some specially for kids, and according to Bustle, at least one of them -- Unicorn Kisses -- had a bubble gum taste. So I thought I'd have a closer look.

They make six of these kiddie seltzers, with weird names from mythology like Pixie Lights and Minotaur Mayhem. I could not find those two, however. The ones you see above were the flavors at my local Shoprite. Two of them were in Halloween dressing last week, but they are available all year long. I was most keen to try the Unicorn one because of my recommendation, but I wanted to see what was going on with the others. The names -- Mermaid Songs, Dragon Whispers, Yeti Mischief, and the forenamed -- tell you nothing about their flavors. It's guessin' time!

I can usually tell what Polar seltzers are supposed to be immediately, which is a credit to them; flavored seltzers have no juice and no calories, so the makers have to construct the flavor with virtually no ingredients. In the case of the four kiddie seltzers, though, I -- like the Bustle writers and the reviewers at Mass Live -- had a hard time pegging just what they were supposed to be. It doesn't mean they were bad though, not necessarily. Here are my thoughts, which I wrote down before thoroughly reading the reviews linked:

Yeti Mischief -- started a little citrusy, but with a strong berry or perhaps raspberry finish. Bustle's tasters called it "limey and piney" but they are wrong. Mass Live also went the lemon-lime route, missing the berry flavor. But it is so freaking obvious. Man, no wonder people can't find Bigfoot.

Dragon Whispers -- more aggressively berry-flavored, but definitely has a grapeishness to it. Bustle went the citrus route on this one as well, falling into the trap! But Mass Live, who liked this one the most, called it -- berries and grape. The reviewer did think that the purple dragon on the can may have influenced the detection of grape. I think that's wrong, but I will say that the other reviews of these products seem to make these the Rorschach test of sodas.

Mermaid Songs -- also grapey, but something guava or papaya about it. A light taste, hard to pin down. Bustle consulted a Bon Appetit writer who probably nailed it best: Swedish Fish. I give the Mass Live guy points for trying: "foamy sea spray mixed with orange Starburst."

Unicorn Kisses -- tasted like sour gum, not bubble gum, to me; after a couple of cans the best I could come up with was: Jolly Rancher with the fruit part removed. If you took out all the flavors that make different color Jolly Ranchers taste different, what you'd be left with is this. Definitely my least favorite of the four I tried, although Bustle was more forgiving. Their reviewer also got the Rancher vibe but found it to be like a watermelon one, which I can imagine but barely, with a strawberry bubble gum aftertaste, which I think is too generous. Mass Live said it is an "an airy whirlpool of bubblegum cotton candy flavors" which I agree with if by "airy whirlpool" you mean "underflavored mess with no cotton candy flavors."

So I'm sorry, Anonymous; in my opinion, the one supposedly the most bubblegummy was the one I liked least, and one I wouldn't recommend. I hope you had better luck finding your beverage.

Perhaps my groundbreaking essay from September will encourage Canada Dry or Schweppes to make a Bubble Gum Seltzer. Wouldn't that be refreshing!

Hair apparent.

If only dog hair were a useful commodity. I'd have a lucrative side job at the least.

I know I'm a little obsessed on this topic. We knew when we got Nipper, Dog #2, two years ago that we'd be up to our knees in dog hair. Dog #1, Tralfaz, was a big hairy fellow with lots of hair to spare (and share). The second one isn't as big, but seems to have an amazing ability to turn over the stuff. My wife groomed him, removing every loose hair she could, and the very next morning clouds of the stuff were drifting off him. I was petting him on the porch and the summer breeze was carrying little drifts of Nipper out over the grass. It was snowing dog.

Besides choking one vacuum cleaner to death, wearing a second almost out, and testing the limits of the (so far so good) Bissell Pet Hair Eraser, there's not much you can do with dog hair. Even if it's soft and silky, as is particularly the case with Tralfaz's fuzz, you're limited in what you can do.

Not that some folks don't try. There are people who spin yarn from their dogs' hair and knit with it. There's some that will take your collected dog hair and do it for you. A dog blanket that's literally a dog blanket -- what better way to remember Bella after she's crossed the Rainbow Bridge?

And really, is dog hair different than cashmere (goats), angora (bunnies), or alpaca (alpacas)?

Yes, because, dog.

I don't know, there's just something weird about predator fur being used as to keep you warm. Now, if you kill it and skin it like the Nemean Lion, that's different. Plus, Heracles kept the head attached. Made him look mean.

And, naked.

But that's useless to me here. I'm not skinning and tanning something I regard as a pet.

I just can't see any use for all this dog hair. Sure, it would make a great toupée for me, but no way would anyone believe it was real. Too much like... dog hair.

The only way I see it working is as a toupée for Chihuahuas. They get cold. But, they have no money. Alas, another great business model down the drain.

Morpheus is a jerk.

Last week was tiresome. I was filling in for someone who was on vacation, and I found out just how annoying his job is. I mean, I thought the worst part of his position was having to deal with, well, me. But that was just part of it. (Of course, I still have to deal with me all the time; how fair is that?)

Between that and a huge project for another employer on which I am slowly grinding to the end, it was a tiring week. And as usual, especially when I'm under work stress, Morpheus was a jerk.

Not the guy from the Matrix movies. I mean the Greek god of dreams. He sucks.

The problem is not dreams of running around Yale naked or trying to work when I can't read or even the world coming to an end. No, it's that I'm dreaming about workish things and that itself is a lot of work. 

It's exhausting. Like the late Mitch Hedberg said, "I hate dreaming. Because when you sleep, you wanna sleep. Dreaming is work, you know -- there I am in a comfortable bed, the next thing you know I have to build a go-kart with my ex-landlord. I want a dream of me watching myself sleep."

In one recent one I was at a work event at a stadium, where we were all going to a ball game; I had brought a bunch of pizzas, which I was carrying, and wearing a suit, and I didn't know most of the group and was trying to fit in. No one else was dressed for work. I got lost in the stadium and wound up wandering the halls of the run-down hotel attached to it. I was tired when I got up. And not only tired -- for an hour or so I had this vague sense of something I had to do, until I realized that the thing on my mind was that I worrying that I had to meet up with the imaginary gang to deliver the imaginary pizzas at the imaginary ballpark.

This went on all week. I would have a dream where I could not accomplish something, and my brain would keep working on the problem even after I was awake. Even last night. I had to make two stops at a grocery store that hasn't existed since I was kid and got the wrong things both times, so I had to figure out what I really needed to get for the first fifteen minutes I was up. This is stupid.

Look, Morpheus, I've had it. I already have a bunch of clients who need me to fill in some holes while others are on summer vacation. I don't need unpaid assignments from you. Knock it off.

Hercules vs. the Woman in HR.

“You wanted to see me, Ms. Oracle?”

“Yes, that’s right, Hercules. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you. Say, if this is about that thing at the Saturnalia party, it's kind of a he-said they-said---”

“No, not about that. Now, I am told that you filed a petition based on this matter of—oh, my, tch-tch-tch.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know it looks bad.”

“‘Killed family again.’ I hardly think ‘looks bad’ sums this up, Hercules.”

“Yes, I know, but gosh darn it, Ms. Hera was really to blame, ma’am. I mean, I know I'm making a serious charge, and I know that when you point a finger you point three back at yourself and all, but she did it before. The craziness. You know.”

“Yes, that’s right. All here in your file. Mr. Apollo noted that you were a special case.”

“Yes, ma’am. Special Herc, that’s me.”

“I suppose that has something to do with your father being the head of the company…”

“Oh, no, no, not at all, ma’am. You know I’ve earned those Employee of the Century awards. No favors for me, no ma’am.”

“Yes, well… Seems like the last time this happened you had to do a great deal of community service.”

From the file.

“That was what the judge came up with, Ms. Oracle, and if I may say, I did a pretty sweet job with it all around.”

“Mmm-hmm. Mr. Zeus was never that thrilled with you killing his eagle.”

“Yes, well—I mean to say—look, I had to get Prometheus’s help and all. And then there was the Atlas situation. I think I did all right.”

“The stable thing was a neat job, though. In fact, our janitorial crew used the river idea after last year’s Saturnalia.”

“I know. My office still smells like mildew.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? If you want to stay on with the company, Hercules, you’re going to have to do another dozen tasks. Capiche?”

“On it. What’s the drill this time? Giant lions or bulls? Hydra? Get some more swag from Hippolyte?”

“Get with the times. That old-school stuff isn’t going to cut it now.”

“Oh.”

“We had Mr. Apollo draw up a list for you, and I think you’ll find this reflective of our modern, forward-looking company, and yet truly challenging for a hero of your mettle.”

“Okay, my mettle, sure. Well, you know what I say: The challenging I can do at once; the impossible may take a little longer. Heh heh.”

“First, there’s a Superfund site in California that needs cleaning up.”

“Hey, no problem. I’ll—”

“If you divert a river at it you will contaminate a much larger area. You’ll have to come up with something else.”

“Hmm.”

“Next, we want you to go to Marvel Comics and get some of the vast fortune they made off that Jack Kirby version of you and give it to his family.”

“Oh, I was never that important in the Defenders—”

“Third, you are to become a movie star…”

“With these muscles? Easy.”

“…and win an Academy Award.”

“Ah. Tricky.”

“Fourth, we want you to solve the U.S. debt crisis.”

“You want me to what?”

“Tens of trillions of dollars owed and no one in the country has the guts to do anything about it. You find a way to pay it all back and put the country on a firm footing.”

“Oh, sure. Easy peasy lemonade squeezy. What’s next, peace between Israel and the Muslims?”

“No, silly. That’s number eleven.”

“What!?”

“Fifth—”

“Hold on, there, this is just getting silly. Come on, can’t I just go open a can of whupass on Poseidon or someone?”

“Fifth, you must write a novel and get it published, becoming a national best-seller.”

“Now, come on! What is that for? The last time my labors had some good purpose for others.”

“This is to teach you humility. Nothing gets humiliated faster or more thoroughly than a new author. We call it the Fred Key Method.”

“I’m not much of a—”

“Sixth, a lot of American bridges are falling into disrepair because municipalities have spent all their money buying friends and votes and none painting the bridges. You paint them.”

“All of them? There must be millions!”

“Only six hundred thousand or so. Now for number seven. Oh, this is a doozy.”

“Look, I know I’m Zeus’s kid and all, but even I can’t do all this! I mean, okay, the bridge thing, sure, but the novel? Forget it!”

“Hercules, sit down! If you wish to remain with this organization, these are the terms.”

“Hey, let’s not forget that I’m the victim here! My family is dead!”

“You killed them!”

“I was just the gun, Ms. Oracle. Just the gun. Ms. Hera pulled the trigger. She fired me.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not the only one. Unless you’re going to do the quest?”

“No. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to update my résumé. Maybe the gang at Asgard are hiring.”

Muse on this.

The Muses were the nine goddesses of song, dance, and music in Greek mythology. They were considered the source of inspiration for writers, musicians, poets, and all that crowd. In fact, the word inspiration, like respiration, comes from breathing in, as if the divine spark of creativity were given to the poet with the breath of life, and made of the same substance. Anyone who has felt truly inspired knows that feeling of having something outside himself, greater than himself, using him to bring some brilliance to earth---like he is a mere instrument and some Other holds the bow. None of this explains Robin Thicke, but it doesn't have to.

Everyone likes the Muses, and they never got into weird trouble like some other gods I could name. The nine gals all have great and classic Greek names, but oddly, despite their popularity, their names have not spread much into wider popular use.

Calliope

Calliope was the goddess of epic poetry, and yet her name was given to a kooky steam-powered musical instrument of the type we associate with carnival music and organ grinders. It's an understandable appropriation, as Calliope may be probably the prettiest name of the bunch; you wouldn't call your new instrument "the Melpomene" and expect people to show up. Since Calliope got something named after her, though, I suppose the others ought to as well. You don't want them getting jealous.

Erato

Erato was the goddess of erotic poetry, so I guess in a way she does have something named after her. Remember that in the old days there was no prose; everything was poetry. So erotic prose would be in her bailiwick today. All those paperbacks for women featuring shirtless guys on the cover---that's Erato. (Sorry, guys; there was no Muse named Porno.) If there were a G-rated (rather than G-string rated) object we would name the Erato, I'd suggest some kind of Liquid Paper; maybe a variety used on quality stationery to remove errors while composing steamy letters to loved ones. Neatness still counts, you know.

Euterpe

Euterpe was in charge of lyrical poetry and music, so that would be more the kind of la-di-da stuff we think of as poetry now. How unfair is that name, though? Try rhyming something with "You-TURRR-Pee." "Hail to thee, beneficent Euterpe / With your flute and bright gold derby." Nah. I think the Euterpe would wind up being some kind of surgical instrument rather than a musical one. Or maybe an old-fashioned digestive illness.

Terpsichore

Terpsichore (Turp-SICK-or-EE) does sound like a kind of old-fashioned instrument, a bit similar to the harpsichord (Harp-SICK-cord); and she was the goddess of choral dance and song. She'd own a club in Vegas now. I'd say the Terpsichore would be some gizmo used by sound engineers, but I'm not sure what. Either a kind of rhythmic version of Auto-Tune to get everyone on beat or an electric prod to wake the talent up before the opening act finishes.

Thalia

Thalia is about the only Muse name you hear given to girls, and a pretty and mellifluous name it is. Thalia is the Muse of comedy, and is usually seen with a comic mask or a shepherd's staff. Not sure I get the shepherd angle. Maybe the same reason we liked Li'l Abner and The Beverly Hillbillies and The Dukes of Hazzard: Bumpkins is funny! Regardless, the Thalia should be a kind of nail polish.

Urania

Sorry, Urania; it's totally unfair, you being the goddess of astronomy, but your name is going to a device that reminds little girls to wipe front-to-back. (Yes, your great-grandfather Uranus got a planet named for him, but it didn't help him either.)

Polyhymnia

Polyhymnia looks like a total Joykillnia is this picture. As the Muse of the Sublime Hymn, or religious music, I'm not surprised. For every Ode to Joy there are five thousand Michaels Rowing the Boat Ashore. That would make anyone look glum. Still, her name fits the hymnal, as the words have not drifted too far away from the names; the Polyhymnia would be a special hymnal for choir directors, with all the professional notes for his use ("Allegro" "Fortissimo" "Make sure they don't all hiss like snakes on the 'bless' line").

Melpomene

Well, I've already made fun of Melpomene's name, and as the Muse of tragedy I'm sure she knows how to get even. That's a mask she's holding, by the way, not the head of another writer that crossed her. But I'll be nice. Ish. The Melpomene sounds like one of those exotic fruits that pop up at the grocery store that you know were flown in from someplace where they have a lot of shooting and disease, but it is SO exotic looking and impressive sounding---only, maybe it's one of those things that you have to cook or peel, or else you'll be tooting like a Calliope for days. Better check online.

Clio

And finally we have Clio, the Muse of history, whose name was inappropriately stolen for use as the award for advertising. So here's the one Muse devoted to telling the story of how things actually were, whose name is being used to reward those who tell anything else. There's nothing I can do or say meaner than that, so I think I'll just leave the poor thing to her misery.