Beam Me Up, Whoever You Are

Have you heard this? For nearly the last two weeks, there have been just about nightly sightings of UFOs over Euclid, Ohio--just east of Cleveland and only a couple miles from my own home base (check the link--video of the weird lights). I've got a few theories on what's drawing the ETs to our wonderful metropolis on Lake Erie. Maybe the universe is finally getting wind of LeBron James and wants a peek. Maybe they think that since Cleveland is supposedly so miserable we're an easy target for an invasion: surely the rest of Earth won't mind if we (the aliens) take over this miserable little place. Maybe the visitors come from a truly parallel universe where everything is the reverse of what it is here on Earth. Thus, to them, Cleveland would be paradise. Maybe they've heard about Malley's bacon, covered in chocolate! Maybe they revere potholes.

Whatever the reason, I've decided that as long as their probes aren't too obtrusive, they have me back in time for the NBA Finals in June, and they don't ask me about the Kentucky Derby in 1987, I'd happily go along with them for a ride. In fact, last night it was so clear and pleasant out, I stood in the backyard and peered up at the sky Euclid-way for half an hour, hoping for at least a sighting, at best a ride. I really want to see a UFO sometime, just so I can be like all those others who've seen one and are so serious when you ask. "Yep, I've seen one," kind of like somebody saying they've seen an animal eat its young: yeah, I'm privileged, I saw it, and unless you've seen it too, we have nothing to talk about because you just don't understand.

Anyway, if this truly is cyberspace I'm scribbling in, then this is my open invitation to aliens from across the universe: drop on by, I'd love to see you sometime.

The Holy Modal Rounders-Mr. Spaceman

Suitable, Or Healthy, This Thing?

So in the midst of this mother of all wind storms we're currently having, I'm doing a load of laundry. Just as I'm stuffing all the wet clothes into the dryer, my mind--as it so often does--turns philosophical. I start wondering if, two minutes into the dry cycle, the power goes out and stays out indefinitely, how long, if ever, would it take for that pile of clothes (we're talking a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts, socks, hankies, and some unmentionables) to dry on its own, stuffed into the dryer? I'm at a loss. Does anyone know an old Nova episode you can refer me to? But then I look up at the glaring light on the ceiling of my "utility" room and shrug off such nonsense and happily say, "Nah, my electricity's fit as a fiddle."

And then I thought (luckily just as I was pressing the on button of the dryer, otherwise I just might have found out how long, given the enormity of this thought), what's so damned fit about a fiddle? Ever seen one drop and give you ten? Sink a couple treys? Do a double axel? Tear a phone book in half? Me either. In fact, isn't a fiddle just a Mayberry RFD way to say violin (ooohhh, I guess not; the experts say a fiddle loosely refers to a whole bunch of string instruments, including, but not exclusively, the violin; which of course begs the question what's the difference between a fiddle and a violin? well, wiki has that covered too, listing a half dozen cliched jokes ala "about $1000"; "you buy a fiddle but sell a violin" ad nauseam--though not one involving tattoos, which seems to me to be at the root of the division)? Ever been around anyone who has a violin? You'd think they were in simultaneous possession of the Holy Grail, Osama Bin Laden, and Bob Dylan's new unlisted phone number. I've seen newborn babies treated with less delicacy than a violin. Fit? Seems a bit more like feeble to me.

Look, if we have to use musical instruments as pillars of physical fitness (marching band members the world over high-step in glee over that clause), I think we can come up with several more apt examples than the fiddle. I mean, even if you want to stick to the whole alliteration thing (and let's face it, as far as literary devices go, alliteration is a vastly second fiddle) why not go with the flugelhorn? That's got a nice ring to it, no? "Nah, you dasn't arm wrestle that old dame. Granny's as fit as a flugelhorn." Don't call me weird or anything, but I've always kind of admired the sleekness of the oboe. Kind of looks like a debutante in a black cocktail dress and a smile that coos, "maybe, just maybe." That's it, from now on, when anybody challenges my stamina or strength, I'm saying, "Hell yes I can. I'm fit as an oboe." (Mental note to self: write a treatment for a screenplay called Oboe Cop, about a flatfoot who solves crimes with the aid of his trusty wind instrument [and if it's really a reed instrument, get off my back, Serena!]. Is Don Knotts still alive? Maybe Steve Carell could do it.).

But really, to me, if you want the ideal musical instrument to convey the notion of ultimate fitness, I believe you must go beyond the orchestra and into the garage for this baby:

Yes, the nimble Fender Stratocaster. Fit and sexy, the Kelly Ripa of axes. I mean, talk about taking a licking and keep on ticking. Jimi Hendrix, Monterey. Say no more. Come on folks, help me kick this old tired cliche into the 21st Century. Start using the phrase, "fit as a Fender Strat," in your everyday conversation. It's time the hoi polloi take over from the hoity toity.

And speaking of the hoi vs. hoity war, I did some research on the fit as a fiddle phrase, where once again I was met with choruses of "no one really knows where the expression comes from..." Interestingly enough, though, the site phrases.org.uk, which is quickly becoming my most trusted source for phrase info (maybe it's that .uk thing that makes it seem so superior to any old tonysfunphrases.com entity), is the only one I found which points out that when the phrase seems to have originated, back around 1600, the word "fit" generally meant not physically healthy but something more like "suitable" (which, in a narrow sense, I can understand those old Elizabethans thinking a fiddle might be the model for suitableness, though, still, suitable for a knife fight, a harvest, an orgy? I guess, though, if one is inclined to use the rather drab word suitable, one would probably prefer a fiddle to a Fender Strat). A definite second fiddle site to the Stradivarius that is phrases.org.uk, while singing the praises of fit as a fiddle's alliterative qualities, provided this gem of a typo while trying to make sense of the phrase: "if a fiddle's strings aren't taunt (sic) enough, it doesn't sound too good." As if fiddle strings can taunt: "Hey flutes, you're a buncha wimps"; "Yo tubas, arpeggio this!"

In conclusion, fit as fiddle is not quite suitable to me as a phrase. So I trumpet my own fit as an oboe and/or fit as a Fender Strat, and I plead with you all to drum up support for their use and pull any strings at your disposal so we can conduct a coup. Finis.

The Holy Modal Rounders-Give The Fiddler A Dram