How Public Was My Domain!

the Boopster herself!

I can’t speak for my fellow scribes, but for me, the list of masterworks that have entered the public domain as of January 1^st is very exciting! For decades now, I’ve longed to publish spoofs of The Secret of the Old Clock (the first Nancy Drew mystery), the WWI classic All Quiet on the Western Front, and Leroy Anderson’s bouncy “Sleigh Ride." Now I can, and it’s all perfectly legal!! 

 

My only question is—do I tackle the gems separately, or together? One by one would make the most sense. So, of course, I vote for a mashup. What do you think of:

 

Our Town is (the dance, also the city) Charleston

 

Betty Boop stars in this touching drama of an unflappable young flapper and her love interest, struggling Hungarian composer Bela Bartok, dreaming of fame and fortune in a small New England town located in coastal South Carolina. Buster Keaton plays the Stage Manager.

 

No? 

 

Then how about:

 

I’m Just Wild about Winston (Subtitle: The Man Who Never Gave In. Never, Never Never)

 

Thrilling musical biopic about Churchill, directed by Frank Capra. Original score by Ira and George Gershwin includes such tuneful tunes as “Embraceable Statesman” and “I’ve Got a Crush on the British Empire.” Toe-tapping history at its finest.

 

Or maybe…

 

The Little Engine that Could Commit Murder in the Vicarage.

 

The unlikely creative pairing of Watty Piper and Agatha Christie have inspired me to come up with the best children’s book of the year. Tiny tots everywhere will delight as the scrappy little train repeats, over and over and over, “I think I can!” while plotting the demise of unpopular village magistrate Colonel Protheroe. Can the engine do it? You’ll learn the answer tonight at bedtime!

 

There are, to be sure, still lots of juicy works that aren’t yet fair game. “Achy Breaky Heart,” for example. From Justin to Kelly. The entire Colleen Hoover oeuvre. I’ll need to wait a spell to mock Ben Affleck’s “Gigli” and the earwormy song “Baby Shark” (but seriously, aren’t they both self-parodies anyway?)

 

However, I take solace from the fact that I can, with impunity, pilfer the entire canons of Shakespeare and Sophocles, movie classics such as The Saphead and Our Modern Maidens, and the 1929 song “Turn On the Heat," with my VERY favorite lyrics “If you are good/my little radiator/it’s understood/you’ll get a gumdrop later.” How clever!

 

While I chafe at the restrictions on using recent copyrighted works, I’m certainly glad they apply to my own writings. I’d be furious if, say, some lazy imitator played around with my wonderful op-ed for The Independent, “Kim Kardashian and Pete Davidson Are Over--Or Are They?” I mean, talk about evergreen stuff! 

 

Lately, some of my writer friends are discovering that their pieces are being used (without permission) to train A.I. I hurriedly Googled my own essays and guess what? NO one is using anything!!!! 

 

Hey! What’s the matter with MY work, Chat GPT? Not good enough to pirate?

 

I’m insulted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Day in Esrever (Reverse)

photo by pap on freeimages

Wow. I thought I was “hep” to all the cutting-edge anti-aging tips and tricks. You know: lots of greasy food, no exercise, tons of pancake makeup, zero nighttime sleep. 

Sorry. That’s the President’s routine. My bad.

 

How about: Mediterranean diet, mindfulness meditation, 3-3-3 workout schedule (3 strength training, 3 cardio, 3 rest), devil’s horn hand gesture when passing McDonald’s?

 

More like it.

 

But now along comes the latest longevity hack. To wit: every night, try to remember your day backwards for two minutes. 

 

Piece of cake, right?

 

Not so fast.

 

I gave this a whirl yesterday. Here’s what I recall:

 

Went to sleep.

Turned off light.

Used bathroom (this would recur several times through the night).

Re-read last page of current book.

Read Buzzfeed’s listicle of “26 to watch in ’26.”

Checked phone for critical messages. 

Failed.

Tried to recall yesterday’s last-read page of current book. 

Got into bed with current book.

Noticed sore knees and windedness.

Climbed stairs.

 

Aaaand, that’s all I’ve got.

 

I know there was dinner in there somewhere (prepping, consuming), interacting with family (how was your day? Somebody? Anybody?), closing up shop in my office (blog can wait till tomorrow. Yawn. Or the next day), and looking out the window to confirm that it is a) too dark and b) too cold to take a walk. 

 

But meaningful convos? Memorable actions? 

 

No clue.

 

Listen, this is supposed to be a POSITIVE AND SUPPORTIVE ACTIVITY.

OK, so “reverse remembering” doesn’t fly with me. How about:

 

Sideways recall? You know: I ate pizza—I shouldn’t eat so much pizza—pizza is fattening—I first ate pizza in Ardsley, NY when I was 8—when I was 8 I hadn’t eaten McDonald’s yet, either—I must’ve been one healthy kid!—wait, I had TV dinners every night and Nestle’s Quik for breakfast—never mind.

 

That has some promise, but still.

 

The bottom line is, I want to live forever, with no effort whatsoever, and I spend inordinate amounts of time researching ways for that to be possible. Many precious hours I could be spending learning Navajo, or studying quantum physics, or slathering my face with soybean milk (I met someone in Vietnam who does just that! She is 70 and looks 40!) 

 

Maybe I’m approaching this idea wrong. 

 

What if, instead of remembering backwards, I actually lived my LIFE backwards?

 

Collect Social Security.

Have five kids.

Get married.

Graduate from high school.

Meet Steve.

Not do my homework or study for tests.

Watch TV until my eyeballs fall out.

Eat TV dinners (while watching TV).

Graduate from elementary school.

Learn to read (my current book, or Run, Spot, Run).

“Forget” to brush my teeth.

Stomp my feet and cry at bedtime.

 

And so forth.

 

Where was I?

 

Ah yes.

 

Remembering my day backwards.

 

You know what? No.

 

I’ll just remember it forwards, thank you very much.

 

MUCH easier.

 

Let’s see. I woke up, and…

 

Um…

 

Give me a minute.

 

I’ve come to a conclusion.

 

Living forever is really overrated.

Back to the stroller? No way!

Confessions of an Ultracrepidarian

When I learned the word “ultracrepidarian” and its definition (one who attempts to speak knowledgeably about things they don’t really know/understand) I felt a shock of recognition. So THAT’S what I am! At least sometimes. Prime example: when I first saw this word, I began to bloviate about “ultaCRAParian” and how apt a word it was. Crap? Get it? Of course, I was so wrong. It actually traces its origin to Pliny the Elder's adaptation of the retort that the Greek painter Apelles made to a cobbler who was critiquing Apelles' work, “nē suprā crepidam sūtor jūdicāre” (“let the cobbler not judge above the sandal.”) Yet another example of my pole-vaulting over the truth in service of a simplistic explanation. How…ultracrepidarian of me!!

Looking back, I think I began my career as a mental over-reacher at home, during my weird childhood. There was a period of YEARS when I argued regularly with my dad about the Vietnam War; mind you, neither of us had skin in that game, and all I knew I gleaned from half-listening to Uncle Walter (Cronkite) on TV. But Dad would climb upon his hobbyhorse and I on mine, and we’d rehash the same dubious talking points, over and over. I fancied myself quite the sharp debater (until I participated in an actual debate, that is. Who knew you needed FACTS to back you up?)

 

Later, I feigned expertise in the following areas: 

Art

Music

Theatre

Science

History

Parenting

 

Oh, I always talked a good game, and 90% of the time I convinced my audience (or at least I bored them enough to just start nodding in quasi-agreement, to get the exchange over with). The others proved intractable—but who needed them, anyway? I would scurry back to my rapt cheering section, those who applauded my arguable arguments and conclusions.

 

My sweet hub has undoubtedly found ample cause to refute some of my commentary, but he’s much too nice to contradict me (at least in public). My children are another story. Even before the internet, they could (and did) correct me when I strayed from the path of verity. And now? With the sum total of the world’s brilliance in those shrunken computers we call phones?? Fuggedaboudit! I am debunked before I even have a chance to bunk! 

 

So, to set the record straight:

 

*Mussels and clams that do not open when cooked can still be fully cooked and safe to eat (who knew? Not me!)

*Michelangelo was standing, not lying down, when he painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling (wait, what?)

*“Irregardless” IS a legit word (horrors!)

*Listening to classical music (esp. Mozart) does NOT boost your IQ (it just burnishes your image as a classy sort of person).

 

As I set sail on the good ship 2026, I vow to do my homework, and stop shooting my mouth off. I don’t need to pretend I am an expert on nuclear fission and Taylor Swift’s romantic history. 

 

I can just ask my 9-year-old grandson.

SUCH a romantic history!

Traditionally

Books galore!
photo by Sirius Harrison on Unsplash

Having just completed the merry celebration of my birthday yesterday (and I won’t tell you which one it was, but here’s a hint: next year is three score and ten for me), I’m turning my attention to Christmas Eve. The Day itself is sorted pretty well, a fantasia of food and unwrapping gifts and gathered loved ones. But the Night Before? We go to churches, plural--you read that right, three churches to be precise: the one where Sheridan works, the one where Ya-Jhu works, and the one where I used to work. Supper happens when/if it happens, and it can be rather sketchy, though last year our wonderful son-in-law Gil cooked us a delicious Israeli dinner. 

I’ve had some fun learning about international Christmas Eve traditions, though I don’t plan on doing any of these, at least not literal recreations. But with a little tweaking, maybe we Seyfrieds could embrace:

 

Find the Pickle (Germany): Those daffy Germans hide a pickle ornament on the Christmas tree, and whoever finds it gets a prize, or good luck for the new year. We’re fresh out of pickle tree ornaments, but there is a jar of cornichons in the pantry, so I may festoon our branches with these tiny gherkins. That would be festive, with the bonus of making our living room smell like the corner deli.

 

Christmas Book Flood (Iceland): Then there’s the Jólabókaflóðið; I invite you to say THAT ten times fast. Icelandic revelers gift each other new books on Christmas Eve, and they all cuddle up and read together. I can picture us doing likewise, from Nana on her Kindle, down to little Dimitri with board books he will either throw (perhaps at the Christmas tree pickles), or try to eat (like the Christmas tree pickles themselves). We might make it to five whole minutes of literary bliss before attention wanes!

 

Peace Apples (China): I love this one. It consists of giving and eating apples (which are often elaborately wrapped, and even carved with symbols for “Love”, “Joy” etc.) To simplify, I can just head to Acme, buy a couple pounds of Honeycrisps (on sale this week), stick ‘em in food storage bags and—voila! I can just see the Love and Joy on the kids’ faces now! 

 

Feast of the Seven Fishes (Italy): I actually attempted this culinary challenge years ago, and it was as pricey and time-consuming, as it was unappreciated by my little ones. But now I know better! Here’s my thought for a seven fishes lineup: can of sardines, can of tuna, can of anchovies, can of herring, etc. This has the virtue of being relatively cheap, and also something we can re-gift to Pat and Ashlyn’s cat Atticus if need be!

 

From Wales (Mari Lwyd, where people went from house to house singing and carrying a horse’s skull--really) to Japan (they traditionally eat KFC--really) the world is full of replicable Yuletide rituals. Which one will my gang try this year?

 

Watch this space.

Japanese KFC
photo by Alan Wang on Pexels