Everyone's a Critic
The Observer's culture blog
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
SNOWBOUND LANGUAGE, by Stephen Hiltner
"Isn't it snice?" asked the snaughter, looking out the window at the latest principitation. "Looks like snizzle to me," answered her snaddy with a frown. His snack was still snurting from snoveling the sniveway the snay before.
As they gazed out over the snooftops of their beloved snown, the sunlight danced on the snazzeleen snowscape, all snapples and snazeycakes after sneeks and sneeks of snow.
Snay after snay, Snaddy had snoveled the snidewalk so the sneighbors could sneeze through with their stroller. First had come the snuff, which was pretty enough, but soon followed the snizzle, the snain, and the dreaded snice. The snaughters had been snappy not to have snhool, but as the snours turned to snays, and the snays to sneeks, and the snow rose towards the snooftops, they grew sneary of being snowbound.
"I can't snake it any snore!," said the snife, sneepless after another snight of her snusband's snoring. She had snuffered the snings and snarrows of outrageous snortune one snight too many. "I'm snorry, Snowcakes," offered the snusband sneepishly.
All power in the sneighborhood had been snost. "Snead as a snoornail," declared Snaddy when his snellphone finally snied. "Maybe we could snask the sneighbors to call," said a snaughter. "But we don't even snow their snames," answered Snaddy, snooking out at the snarkening sky.
"I better take the snog for a slog before we get any more snow," said Snaddy, climbing out the second floor window, snog in snand. The snog, too, was losing touch with other sneighborhood snogs, as each snay's p-mails became buried under new-fallen snow. Snavigating the snarrow, snow-lined snidewalk, the snog sniffed disappointedly, then snarled at a snogger snotting by.
Seeing the sneighbors approaching, Snaddy hastened to cross the sneet, snarrowly snissing being snit by a snar. "Snow down!", he snouted at the sniver. Just the other snay, the snog had snarked suddenly at the sneighbors, snaring the snickens out of the sniny snot in the stroller.
The trees had long since become snees, and snice had turned many a weak-trunked snee into a snoodle. "Once a snoodle, always a snoodle," worried Snaddy, snooking at a birch snee arched completely over in front of a snouse. Dodging the snool snipping from the snees, Snaddy wondered how he had ever become the designated snog-slogger.
Finally they returned snome, the snog's fur filthy from the snirty snow lining the sneets. That evening, as they snat down to sneat some leftover snoup, sneary beyond snords, Snaddy wondered if he'd ever snortle again.
"Is it possible to be blinded by the snight if it's snight-time?" asked one snaughter, confused by the new snowbound language. "Why are we snalking like this?" asked the other. "I don't snow," answered Snaddy, "but it has something to do with snimate snange. Just snink good snoughts, and snope it snoon will be snover."
Posted by John Hilton at 1:04 p.m. | 0 comments
Thursday, February 1, 2018
LAUGHING MATTERS, by David Swain
In the early 1990s, when I was in my late 30s, I lived in Huntington Woods, a small suburb of Detroit near Royal Oak. I had lived in many parts of Detroit over the past dozen or so years (near the Algiers Motel just north of the New Center, by Harpo's on the east side, on Grand Circus Park next to where Comerica Park is now, and in the Grandmont #1 subdivision near Rosedale Park on the northwest side of the city), and I would soon move back to the Ann Arbor area. In addition to living by where I-696 was being built and by the City of Detroit’s Rackham Golf Course (where Joe Louis and many of the Motown artists had played), I was close enough to the Detroit Zoo that I could hear some of the animals (mostly seals) from my front yard.
For one year, I got an annual pass to the zoo which entitled me to free admission. I was a regular there during the quiet winter months. Attendance was sparse, compared to the summer months. When there are thousands of visitors at the zoo, most of the animals pretty much tune them out. When there are only a handful of people coming by during the day, the humans seem more interesting than they would be otherwise (one factor could be that with fewer homo sapiens present, the odds are better that one of them just might be the Bearer of Food). The cold weather also made some animals more active during the day. The arctic foxes were always capering about, looking like extra fierce pomeranians. Near the foxes were the hyenas, who always seemed to appreciate my visits.
I had a rather ratty (and smelly) green winter coat that I always wore and during those cold, quiet, and deserted months at the zoo, the hyenas and I developed a little game of hide and seek. I would try to sneak up on their enclosure, hiding behind benches and trash cans. But whether by sight, sound, or smell, my playmates were always able to sense my approach.
By early spring, more people were going to the zoo. There was a field trip of grade-school kids around the hyena enclosure, boisterously trying in vain to attract the animals' attention. When the Detroit Zoo was built in the 1920s, it was one of the first zoos to experiment with enclosures that didn’t have bars. The hyenas were in an area that was separated from the paying public by a moat and a low wall.
The hyenas were a study of boredom and nonchalance in the face of the children’s best efforts. That changed instantly when the hyenas got wind of their old playmate (me) wearing his trademark jacket. The hyenas went to battle stations, hunkering down and backing up with tiny steps as though they were preparing to leap. The hyenas were not the only ones whose affect underwent a sudden and profound transformation. There was panic and mass hysteria from the little children, who didn’t understand why the rules had changed so suddenly (and not in their favor). No one got hurt, and the young people were given the opportunity to learn an important lesson: Be careful what you wish for.
Posted by John Hilton at 1:39 p.m. | 2 comments
You might also like:
I Spy: December 2021
|Ann Arbor, by Sam Cain (Age 13, Demarest, Nj)|
What happened to Refraction AI's adorable little shuttles?
The Next Unicorn?
Workit Health's founders met in an AA meeting. Now they're halfway to a billion-dollar valuation.
The story behind Arbor Farms' tasty burger
One of the Best Marine Engineering Departments?
Question Corner: December 2021
Craft Cannabis at Winewood Organics
And other marijuana news
Cannelle by Matt Knio and The Great Commoner
Pastries, desserts, and a "boutique café" on E. Washington
Dozer Coffee Joins the HOMES Taproom
Tommy Kennedy expands his beverage portfolio.