A Day At The Races

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves at the very tail-end of yet another month, ye gods, and what do we have to show for it, I ask you that. Of course, the observance of Memorial Day was on Monday, and it can't be denied that the somewhat unpredictable Flag Brigade did a creditable job of running up the colors for the occasion, upstairs and downstairs like we do, and also remembered to take them in again later, which is no trifling matter around here, I can tell you that. With that milestone out of the way, the stage is set to usher in those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, and I know that somewhere, there's a pitcher of lemonade and a hammock with my name on it, by golly. As a matter of fact, they had a front page story in our local newspaper (admittedly a slow news day, I dare say) that because June started on a Monday this year, and September on a Tuesday, it set in motion a chronological anomaly that only occasionally occurs, although this is the first that I'm hearing about it. With Memorial Day being on the May 25 (which is the earliest it can be) and Labor Day coming on September 7 (which is the latest that it can be) it creates a scenario that actually adds 2 extra weeks to the unofficial summer season, compared to ordinary years when the holidays are in their usual times and places. They tell me this last happened in 2009, and they expect it again in 2020 and 2026, so that tells you something right there. Of course, it doesn't change the actual seasonal indicators, with the summer solstice and autumnal equinox cropping up right on schedule, as they always do, as any old Druid worth his or her salt could certainly tell you. But off the record, the span between the two holidays that mark the bookends of the unofficial summer season are farther apart than they usually are, meaning extra summer for everybody, and how awesome is that! Speaking of awesome, nobody could have asked for more glorious weather around here for the duration of the long holiday weekend - every day was more perfect than the last, with blazing sunshine and low humidity. This was good news for my sister's annual BBQ blowout, still going strong in its 43rd year, and which she throws every May for hundreds upon hundreds of her closest friends, relatives from far and wide, total strangers sucked into the aggregation by its gravitational pull, and not to mention, space aliens from far distant galaxies, who have perfected the science of interstellar travel, but still can't play a decent game of horseshoes to save their lives. (The Klingons and Romulans have finally gotten the hang of volleyball, while the Vulcans go in more for the arts and crafts side of things, and they turned out some very nicely painted bird houses and tie-dyed T-shirts, sure to please all of their pointy-eared friends back home.) It's fun for all, and everyone is welcomed with open arms, plus campsites for those adventurous souls prepared to stare down the perils of overnight in the woods. (Although since her property has turned into something of a migration route for immature black bears in the spring, enthusiasm for camping out there has dropped off to a precipitous degree, I must say.) On the other hand, it would be fair to say that the black bears wouldn't stand much of a chance against Darth Vader, compared to your average happy camper, for instance, but I heard he wasn't coming until Monday anyway. And speaking of Monday, I thought it was nice to have a day off from work, especially since at my last temp position, they didn't close for Martin Luther King or Presidents Day, so this was a nice change of pace. And speaking of pace, it reminds me that we can't neglect to mention the venerable Indianapolis 500, now a whopping 99 years old, and lucky to have some good weather there for a change. Oddly enough, the good weather wasn't much of a help to the crowded field of 33 drivers, in a race that was marred with crashes from the first lap, including one multi-vehicle pile-up that stopped the action in mid-stream, as it were, while the debris was cleared from the track. In the end, it was the unheralded Juan Pablo Montoya who came through for Team Penske, winning at The Brickyard for the second time since 2000. The important thing is that everyone came out of it in one piece, and a good time was had by all, especially the petroleum companies and beer sponsors, it goes without saying. But it certainly makes me wonder what three-time winner and odds-on favorite, Helio Castroneves, ever did to get on the wrong side of Affirmed - and we can only hope that whatever it was, he learned his lesson if he ever hopes to win again, that's for sure. It would take much more than an alert reader to recall, after all these long years ago, when I mentioned about one of our old top-heavy wobbly wood tables, situated in the living room next to the baby grand piano, tottering on three spindly legs, and all too easy to lose its balance, for no particular reason whatsoever. In fact, the cats kept knocking it over on a regular basis, so that everything on top of it would go flying in every direction, thanks not. I finally got so tired of picking everything up all the time that I used some of my camping bungee cords to secure it to the piano legs, and put an end to this tomfoolery once and for all. Not so fast! It seems that for the old bungee cords, age finally caught up with them, and they simply disintegrated into nothingness and crumbled remnants on the carpet, and all that's left are the metal hooks attached to nothing whatsoever, alas. I discovered this one morning when I was already late for work, and didn't have any more time to come up with a stop-gap solution in the meantime, and I was sure that it was only a matter of time before the kittens had their way with the old wobbly table, and everything that was on top of it would be scattered every which where, as only kittens can, and I ought to know. When I came home later, I was more surprised than anybody to find the wobbly table in the same spot, still standing, and with all of its various bric-a-brac intact, which caused me to blurt out what I considered the only possible explanation: "Why, these aren't our cats, I must be in the wrong house!" And while we're on the topic of things going wrong, at the job where I'm working now, I go past one particular intersection where one busy street cuts through the middle of a divided highway, then toss in a bus stop and an enormous high school, plus the Post Office, and you're well on your way to a classic recipe for disaster. Every day I stop at the traffic light there, along with many dozens of other motorists, cyclists and pedestrians, and watch the world go by until it's my turn to go forward. A person spending any time in this intersection at all, can't help but notice the signs hanging from overhead wires with this screaming announcement: ========== WAIT FOR GREEN LIGHT ========== And if you're anything like me (heaven forbid!) you find yourself wondering, as well you might wonder, just exactly what sort of wild and woolly post-apocalyptic frontier outpost of a God-forsaken wasteland this is, that they actually have to put up big signs on the street so that people don't just drive right through the red lights. That might be the type of flagrant disregard for moral rectitude that I would expect from our diabolical kitties, or neighborhood juvenile delinquent squirrels, or perhaps even our old friends the ill-mannered dinosaurs, but I didn't realize that ordinary citizens had become such obstinate scofflaws that municipalities were reduced to putting up signs in an effort to keep them in line. One shudders to think what sort of free-for-all it would be without those signs, and while I like a good demolition derby as much as the next fellow, I prefer to watch it from a distance, rather than be part of it on my way to work, believe me. After all, like it says on those NASA bumper stickers, "I NEED MY SPACE." Elle

Make Mine Music

Hello World, Happy Memorial Day weekend! This is another one of those years where the observation of the holiday is as early as it possibly can be, since June starts on a Monday, so Memorial Day is practically a whole week earlier than usual. Of course, for the purists among us (and you know who you are!) the old-fashioned concept of Decoration Day never changes, and doesn't squirt around like a cat burglar on the lam, but stays put right where it's supposed to be on May 30th, year in and year out, so you always know where to find it, and no mistake. In any event, I hope that everyone has a chance to enjoy a nice relaxing long holiday weekend, while still paying tribute to our brave troops, past and present. Failing that, why not take advantage of the huge holiday discounts, incentives, and blowouts - so hurry on out there with wallets wide open and plenty of plastic, and the President's economic advisers will thank you, I'm sure. And speaking of movable feasts, last week Christians all over the world celebrated the festival of Ascension on May 14, and our church had a very nice evening service that was extremely earnest, if not particularly well attended, alas. I admit that the whole thing took me by surprise, because although I was prepared for it to come along in May, I expected it to be much later in the month, as it was last year, when it was on the 29th. Not so fast! I forgot that it's based on a certain number of days after Easter, and Easter was late last year (April 20) while this year it was April 5 instead. So while I was entirely ready for Ascension on May 28 this time around, suddenly popping up on May 14 was certainly not something that I had planned for, and brought about a whole slew of last-minute details and adjustments, thanks not. Oh, for those halcyon days of yore, when the Druids could build an astronomical placeholder like Stonehenge, and everything stayed where it was supposed to be. And while we're on the topic of things going according to plan, last weekend saw the favorite, once again, come in first, this time at the Preakness Stakes, to the surprise of practically nobody. Unlike the thundering herd at the Kentucky Derby, at Pimlico there was a tiny field of only 8 horses, 5 of which had already raced in the Derby, plus 3 newcomers to the scene. In an impressive showing, American Pharoah ran away with it by 7 lengths over the 2nd place horse, Tale of Verve, while Derby darling Dortmund finished in 4th place and 15-1/2 lengths back, so that tells you something right there. It started out as a nice day at the track, but by post time, there was a pelting rain coming down in sheets, so that you basically couldn't see anything right in front of your face, much less across a massive muddy racetrack. According to racing officials, the race would have been called, if there had been actual thunder and lightning, but not if it's only raining, so as they say in the theater, the show must go on, in spite of it all. Obviously, with American Pharoah winning the Derby and now the Preakness, it sets up the potential for a Triple Crown, by winning the third leg at the upcoming Belmont Stakes. It doesn't take a superstitious person to imagine what effect that's going to have on the evil spirit of Affirmed, defending his claim to the last Triple Crown in 1978 from the great beyond, and not giving it up easy, that's for sure. Someone may think they're going to dig him up and pry it from his cold hard horseshoes, but if we've learned nothing else in 37 years, at least we all know better than to turn our back on his nefarious shenanigans at this point, so don't say I didn't warn you. In other sports news, of course in the NHL, the playoffs continue, and true to form, the Rangers are not making it easy on their legion of devoted fans, not by a long shot, I can tell you that. After a grueling series with the Washington Capitals, they have their hands full now with the plucky Tampa Bay Lightning, in a see-saw match-up that could go either way. Meanwhile on the hardwood front, the NBA is also down to the final four, and there are still high hoops hopes in Atlanta, Cleveland, Houston and Oakland, which is actually where the Golden State Warriors play, and I can only suppose that they figured the name Oakland Warriors was just too ridiculous, for some reason. (Because after all, the name "Utah Jazz" makes perfect sense.) (NOT!) A finals battle between the Hawks and Warriors would at least make the airlines happy, while the Cavaliers and Rockets might get the Midwest to sit up and take notice, but tune out everyone else on both coasts. Either way, it will all be over soon enough, and people can finally get on with their summer plans, once we've gotten the winter sports out of the way at long last. Let's face it, you know that Affirmed can't just keep hanging around sabotaging the playoffs, with the Belmont coming up just around the corner, after all. In other entertainment news, last month we traipsed into the city to see Vienna Teng at The City Winery, and lived to tell the tale, which is always my favorite way to travel. Unlike her usual shows, this was a solo, all-request performance, and it was interesting to see and hear her do things so markedly different from what her fans have come to expect. The concert venue is way downtown in the Tribeca area, below Bleecker Street, and practically in the Hudson River, with nothing but Route 9A standing in the way, and a good thing too. They feature live music and a lively bar scene, but also pride themselves on their cuisine - and not just pub food and snacks to nosh during the show, but actual meals like steak, lobster, and roast lamb. Their claim to fame is their extensive beverage selection, including craft beers and literally hundreds of wines from around the world, taking up almost 50 pages on their colossal wine list. "But that's not all!" as they always say on late-night TV infomercials, and they're not kidding. On top of everything else, they also assure me that they are a fully functional winery, where they promise, and apparently without a hint of irony, that I can savor the finest wines made on Varick Street in New York City. [I would ignore the ill-mannered snickering from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery, but I find it necessary to pause here to insert some elaborate eye-rolling as befits the situation.] I have to think that those little old winemakers in France and Italy (and heck, even California) would have something to say about the "finest wines made on Varick Street," but far be it from me to rain on their parade, if that's the star they want to hitch their wagon to. On the other hand, they obviously couldn't call themselves "The Irony Winery," because nobody would be able to say that five times fast, especially after some of that famous Varick Street wine, I dare say. Speaking of music, alert readers may recall a few weeks ago when I mentioned how new doorbells are not the same old tired ding-dongs from yesteryear, but pre-programmed marvels - and for homes like ours with resident felines, "Alley Cat" is one of your choices. Our crack research team here did a quick Internet search to see if the actual name of the song was "Alley Cat" or "The Alley Cat," since everyone knows that pinpoint accuracy is our byword here, where our last two poor addled brain cells (Dumb and Dumber) are hard at work. It turned out to be way more interesting than I had any reason to expect (including LYRICS, believe it or not) and which, thanks to our friends at www.songfacts.com, I can share with the wide world. ================================ Alley Cat by Bent Fabric This won the Grammy Award for Best Rock & Roll Recording, 1962. Bent Fabric is a man, not a group. His real name is Bent Fabricus-Bjerre, and he wrote this under the pseudonym "Frank Bjorn." Fabric is a piano player from Denmark. The Danish title of this is "Omkring et Flygel," which means "Around the Piano." This was the theme song of popular Danish TV show of same name, hosted by Fabric. An instrumental, this used to be very popular at weddings. It has a goofy dance that speeds up with the music. A later vocal version features lyrics by Jack Harlen. [Now we've all got the tune running through our heads, so here are the words to sing along with.] He goes on the prowl each night, Like an alley cat. Looking for some new delight, Like an alley cat. She can't trust him out of sight, There's no doubt of that. He just don't know wrong from right, Like an alley cat. He meets them (meow), And loves them (meow), And leaves them (meow), Like that "Casanova" does. That's no way to treat a pal, She should tell him "Scat!" Aren't you sorry for that gal, And her alley cat. ( instrumental interlude ) He meets them (meow), And loves them (meow), And leaves them (meow), Like that "Casanova" does. He don't know that faithful means, There's no doubt of that. He's too busy makin' scenes, Like an alley cat. And that's the sad, sad tale of a lonesome quail, And her alley cat. ============================== I'm afraid I'm going to have to wrap this up, because the temptation proved just too strong, and I couldn't help but get up and actually do the iconic dance while I was singing, thus causing our collection of kitties to flee at the very sight of me, and in fact, even the dinosaurs are gawking at me like a 3-headed polka dot space alien, and they didn't just fall off the turnip truck, believe me. (One asked me for directions to the La Brea Tar Pits, but even I thought that was over-reacting to an extreme degree.) Even my last two poor addled brain cells are advising me to settle down and chill out with a cool drink. I figure some Varick Street bathtub bubbly should do the trick. Elle

Six Pack

Hello World, Happy (belated) Mother's Day! I hope that everyone made time on Sunday to honor the mothers and maternal figures that have played such a major role in all of our lives, and made the world a better place, with their devotion, compassion and selfless sacrifice. I can always count on the resident felines around here to come through as usual, with plenty of hairballs and poop, not to mention, all the catnip mice that any matriarch could ever hope for, I dare say. We spent the day visiting with a friend who not only has her own menagerie of the hairball-and-poop variety, but also a large and boisterous dog, as well as five human children on top of it all. Alert readers may recall these kind folks as having a dining room table that is actually a pool table with a custom top - and which now, with the addition of a short net, has been magically transformed into a ping pong table besides, and what won't they think of next. A couple of the youngsters prevailed upon me to join them in some rather unorthodox table tennis (I guess that should be pool table tennis) and I discovered that, unlike what they always say about riding a bicycle, ping pong is one of those things that doesn't automatically come back to you decades later, in spite of growing up playing ping pong in the basement for untold years. Although they had youth and enthusiasm on their side, they weren't really any better at it than I was, and since we seemed to be playing some sort of rogue 3-handed ping pong with 6 balls at a time, plus the cats and dog joining in to boot, it was certainly not anything that the Olympic Committee would recognize as a legitimate sport of any kind. On the other hand, if 6-ball ping pong with 3 players, 2 cats and a dog ever catches on, I've already got plenty of experience. Naturally, I couldn't accept money, for fear of losing my amateur status, but I'm not above being bribed in other ways, so please make mine chocolate, and plenty of it, my good man. Meanwhile, at the place where I'm working now, there's a family pharmacy (not a chain) on the corner, and when I walked past it at the beginning of last week, I couldn't help but notice a huge sign in the window announcing that Mothers Day cards were 50% off already - and mind you, this was still a whole week before it would actually be Mothers Day for real. Of course, the first time I went into the store, it surprised me that they were still selling left-over Easter candy and Christmas decorations, so the management's opinions regarding the timeliness of festive occasions might be significantly different from the rest of us, I shouldn't wonder. Far be it from me to cast aspersion on anyone's perhaps radical re-interpretation of time-worn traditions and customs, but if The Holiday Police ever get wind of this, it's not going to be a pretty sight, I'm afraid. And speaking of families, I made a note in my calendar on April 26, when I first spotted the dramatically colorful monk parakeets returning to our neighborhood after their winter migration. Actually, you don't so much see these amazing parrot-like creatures, as you do hear them first, because their strident squawking signals their presence for blocks in every direction, I can tell you that. After I heard their unmistakable high-decibel screeches, I saw the first four of them at the bird feeders next door (and yes, I'm not embarrassed to say that I have plenty of blurry pictures to prove it, despite the ill-mannered snickering from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery) and they seemed to be settling right in, just like last year. Not so fast! After that first time on the 26th, I haven't seen hide nor hair of them since, so either they're setting up housekeeping very quietly, and keeping their bright green plumage under wraps, or they have found greener pastures for their raucous and rambunctious colony this time around. Of course, everyone knows by now that our local juvenile delinquent squirrels are not to be trusted at all costs, but I'm sure that scrawled note of "ROANOKE" tacked to a tree was nothing to be concerned about. On the playoff scene, the plucky New York Rangers came roaring back from the brink of elimination against the pesky Washington Capitals, forced a decisive Game 7, and just barely pulled out a win in overtime, to clinch the series, for their euphoric legion of die-hards. It was nothing but nail-biters all the way, and no margin for error, or breathing room to speak of - after 7 whole games, the Rangers scored a total of 13 goals, with 12 for the Capitals, so that tells you something right there. Heck, those are the kinds of numbers you expect from the World Cup, where they routinely play to 0-0 ties, and goals are about as rare as Kardashians with all of their clothes on. (Oh, hit that easy target!) Next up is Tampa Bay, fresh off their own hard-fought tilt against Montreal, which seems impossible to us hide-bound traditionalists, who painfully remember the dominance of Canadian teams in the NHL, and scoff at the very idea of ice hockey in Florida, of all places. Out in the wild west, Anaheim made short work of Calgary in 5 games, while Chicago did even better, sweeping Minnesota out of the joint in four straight. If Chicago and New York advance to the Stanley Cup finals, it would be another "Original Six" matchup to delight the purists, while an Anaheim-Tampa Bay series would thrill the sun worshipers, no doubt. Hopefully with the Preakness going on, the evil spirit of Affirmed will be too busy sabotaging poor American Pharoah to weave his diabolical spells on Broadway's finest, but I would warn the players against taking any wooden horseshoes anyway, and not take any chances. In other sports news, we had the first of two subway series this year between the local pinstripe brigades, with both the Mets and Yankees leading their respective divisions at the time, as improbable as that might sound. The vaunted Bombers managed to take 2 out of 3, tumbled the Amazin's out of first place, dashing the hopes of the Flushing faithful, but at least making the home team happy in the (replacement) House That Ruth Built - although truth to tell, their fans expect them to win every game anyway, so this is just another day at the office for U.S. Steel ... I mean, the New York Yankees, as Joe E. Lewis would say. And speaking of comic relief, there was at least one bright spot for the Mets recently, and not only because they actually won a game, which is a rare enough occurrence as it is, but turned out to be statistically significant as well. Last Tuesday, the Mets' Bartolo Colon became the first pitcher in over 100 years to beat the same ballclub with 7 different teams, as the Mets squeaked past the Orioles (who coincidentally have lost 7 in a row to the Mets in their last meetings, going back to 1999, believe it or not) and certainly gave the statisticians a workout in the process, by golly. Colon accomplished this feat with the Cleveland Indians, Chicago White Sox, Anaheim Angels, Boston Red Sox, New York Yankees, Oakland Athletics, and now the Mets - and you have to figure by now, the poor Orioles' snakebit fans must flee at the very sight of him. Even in these cynical days, where teams and players are considered interchangeable commodities, and loyalty is a quaint anachronism of the past, this is a remarkable record to compile, and in fact, may never have been done before in the entire history of the game, going back to those halcyon days of yore, when the dinosaurs and I were tossing the old horsehide around on the unformed land masses in the primordial ooze. Apparently they can only verify the data about this going back to 1914, and before that is anyone's guess, so it's entirely possible that Colon might be the one and only ever, since the very beginning, which would certainly be a feather in his cap that even the dinosaurs would have to respect, and they are notoriously cavalier in their outlook, I don't mind saying. As for the Orioles, the solution is obvious, if they want to stop this streak where it is and not have it potentially continue with yet an eighth team - all they have to do is take a page out of Affirmed's evil handbook, and get Bartolo Colon on their own team instead. If Baltimore isn't interested, I might take a run at him myself - I'll bet he would be a whiz at 6-ball 3-player ping pong including 2 cats and a dog, and let's face it, it can't hurt to have a famous partner when we make our application to the Olympic Committee, after all. Elle

Sleep Over

Hello World, Feliz Cinco de Mayo! I hope that your Tuesday festivities, if any, were appropriately muy caliente y mas, amigo - and please don't spare the tequila, por favor. Apart from our Mexican brothers and sisters, the average person has not the faintest clue what May 5 actually celebrates south of the border, but hey, here in New York, our motto is "any excuse for a party," si? (And with special thanks to Facebook friends who posted pictures of a Hellman's mayonnaise jar in a kitchen sink with the caption "Cinco de Mayo," for adding just the pico de gallo to the occasion, carumba!) This has already been an eventful month, with May Day on Friday, being celebrated in vastly different ways, for wildly different reasons, by greatly different cultures, all over the wide world, and probably far distant galaxies as well, I shouldn't wonder. May 7 was the National Day of Prayer, and if there's one thing there's a crying need for these days, it's certainly prayer, that's for sure. Of course, Mother's Day is Sunday (sorry, spoiler alert!) and not even a third of the month gone by already, by golly. At this rate, we're going to have to drag out the "month stretcher" just to squeeze in Memorial Day and Decoration Day before all is said and done - and not to mention, International Tuba Day (1), Lost Sock Memorial Day (9 - although personally, I think this should have its own month), Limerick Day (12 - don't you dare!), Leprechaun Day (13 - I'm warning you!), Dance Like A Chicken Day (14 - oh, I give up!), and wrapping up with National Macaroon Day on the 31st. Whew! And we can't close out our collection of notable dates without even more special thanks to the Jedi wags who have claimed 5/4 as Star Wars Day (according to their "Wookiepedia" - ya gotta love it!) in order to launch the pun "May the Fourth be with you" (get it?!) into the cosmos and back again. Take that, Darth Vader! Getting deeper into May around the old homestead, we are daily confronted with a veritable explosion of more and more spring flowers cropping up everywhere - and not just the desirable ones like our sunny yellow lamium and creamy pastel English wood hyacinths, but also the rampaging undesirables like garlic mustard and chickweed, thanks not. Our backyard is choking under a carpet of low ground cover with tiny purple flowers, and even a cursory online search reveals it as Glechoma hederacea, which Wikipedia describes as "an aromatic, perennial, evergreen creeper of the mint family Lamiaceae. It is commonly known as ground-ivy, gill-over-the-ground, creeping charlie, alehoof, tunhoof, catsfoot, field balm, and run-away-robin." It is universally decried as an invasive interloper of the worst order, and all references to it are limited to ways of exterminating it, with not even the most diffident tree-huggers leaping to its beleaguered defense. Of course, it's perfectly safe in our yard from any efforts to eradicate it, in fact, I'm thinking of replanting it in with our rampant alien mutant poison ivy, and see who's really the toughest of the tough. On a happier note, our delightful azaleas have just started to pop open, while the lovely lilacs are perfuming the air with their exquisite fragrance, which may be copied, but never equaled, try as they might. Where I'm working now as a temp, they have a tremendous wisteria growing along a chain-link fence in the parking lot, and I noticed that it was awash in cascades of lavender blossoms last week, which seemed reasonable because it bakes in the sun all day long. But when I came home, I saw that our wisteria is also blooming, and since it has long since climbed up our sycamore, with blooms hanging all over outside of the upstairs windows, it is always a welcome sight indeed, and the heavenly aroma even more so, I don't mind saying. Not to ignore other significant events of the month, last Saturday was the 141st running of the Kentucky Derby, the first jewel in any potential Triple Crown, media circus, bookies' delight, and the darling of hat-makers everywhere, I dare say. The venerable Run for the Roses was already making headlines before it even started, when it was announced that the now ubiquitous "selfie sticks" would be banned from Churchill Downs for safety reasons, to the anguish of attention-seeking narcissists on all sides. This year seemed a very subdued one to kick off the heart of the racing season, and out of 20 horses in the field, didn't seem to have any real standout ponies, extravagant hype, human interest stories (think California Chrome's owners last year) or even controversies, as there usually are, at least one or another, if not all of them. The Derby just seemed to sneak up on us this time around, with none of the usual fanfare, and a bunch of no-name hopefuls that nobody seemed to care about. As for myself, I figured it was too mundane for even the evil spirit of Affirmed to get worked up about, and while not wishing to jinx anyone, I was firmly behind Upstart, a scrappy thoroughbred born and trained at Sunnyfield Farm in Bedford, New York, of all places. He was at the 19th post position, at about 34-1 odds, but he's the great-great-grandson of Seattle Slew (Triple Crown winner in 1977) and was actually picked to win by the Washington Post, believe it or not. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a race and finished last, and so it is that Funny Cide (2003) remains the only New York-bred horse to ever win the Kentucky Derby. (Hmmmm ..... 12 years isn't exactly "The Curse of Affirmed," still going strong almost 4 decades later, but it makes me wonder if there weren't Funny Cide's diabolical hoofprints at work all over poor Upstart's lousy performance after all.) We watched the race, and I thought it was slow and boring, with the favorite, American Pharoah outrunning Firing Line and Dortmund at the end, but nothing at all exciting about what they like to bill as "The Most Exciting Two Minutes In Sports." Heck, the ladies hats were more exciting than the race, and that's not just the mint juleps talking, believe me. Speaking of boring, I was coming home from work last week and stopped at a traffic light, when I spotted absolutely the most boring car I have ever seen in my entire life, just about blending into the background, and practically disappearing from sight right before my very eyes. It was the plainest 4-door sedan with no distinguishing features of any kind, in a dull dishwater tan that had no shine at all, and could not make itself noticeable if it tried. Honestly, calling it a doorstop would be an insult to doorstops everywhere. I don't mind saying that I drove away from it shaking my head, and wondering how something like that ever left the factory in the first place, and only wanted fugitives or people in the Federal Witness Protection Program would buy it. Now I'm thinking the only explanation is that it must have been some sort of safety innovation at the time, because after all, it couldn't possibly get into an accident - all of the other drivers would fall asleep at the sight of it, long before they would come close to running into it. By golly, if they had taken that car to the Kentucky Derby last week, there would have been 170,513 spectators and 20 horses knee-deep in snooze-land way before the finish line, I can tell you that. Meanwhile in the wide world of entertainment, which should have been interesting, but instead took the boring way out, I happened to catch a snippet of a documentary by Ken Burns on PBS, called "The Roosevelts, An Intimate History," which features exhaustive biographies of Theodore, Franklin, and Eleanor Roosevelt over the course of several hours. I'm sure it was all very accurate, informative, and scrupulously researched, but as far as I'm concerned, it failed the first test of a documentary about the famous Rough Rider, because it left out what I consider the best part of his robust mythology, which isn't even apocryphal. Political mastermind Mark Hanna was a U.S. Senator, and chairman of the Republican National Committee in 1900, who stormed out of the convention where Teddy Roosevelt was nominated as William McKinley's running mate, with this classic parting salvo: "What is the matter with all of you? Don't any of you realize that there's only one life between that madman and the Presidency?" Ya gotta love it! Well, unless you're Ken Burns, I guess, who must have decided that it was just too indiscreet in these politically correct times, a far cry from the free-wheeling "speak softly and carry a big stick" days of yesteryear. Of course, with them being renowned public figures on the New York historical landscape, I suppose we can't rule out the possibility of Funny Cide's diabolical hoofprints at work behind the scenes, protecting his own interests, and keeping Ken Burns at bay through whatever means necessary. I tell you, if this "gutsy gelding" ever teams up with the evil spirit of Affirmed, it could very well be the end of civilization as we know it, and nothing to stand in their way. Fortunately, I know one thing that can stop them in their tracks, and if anybody is looking for me, I'll be hiding behind our rampant alien mutant poison ivy. Elle

Hard At Play

Hello World, Happy May! When the poets, scribblers, and troubadours penned the immortal words, "What is so rare as a day in May," they weren't just whistling Dixie, by golly. The weather gods have smiled on us lately, with a string of lovely days in a row, and more than enough to give even the most cantankerous curmudgeon a capricious case of spring fever, and not a cure in sight, I dare say. Anyone can tell you that the cherry blossoms of lore and legend put on their usual show for locals and tourists alike, in whites and pinks to delight all preferences. Unfortunately, our neighbors no longer have a row of dreamy dogwoods along our driveway, so I have no way of knowing if those lovely trees are blooming now or not, alas. I also miss the majestic chestnut that used to be across the street, but had to be removed due to health reasons, and took all of its cascades of creamy white blossoms right along with it. But everything else around here has been trying valiantly to fill the void, and blooming their little hearts out, including the star flowers and astilbe that have just started to peek open. There are fresh glories everywhere you look, as the horrible winter at last fades into the oblivion of bad memories, and good riddance, I don't mind saying. Of course, there's always the possibility that we'll move directly from blizzard season into hurricane season, thanks not, or worse - so I suppose it couldn't hurt to be on the lookout for the onset of Biblical plagues (locusts, boils, raining frogs) or apocalyptic indicators (aliens, mutants, zombies) just to be on the safe side, and don't say I didn't warn you. Speaking of the great outdoors, alert readers may recall that last year I was surprised to discover what I would describe as an albino cardinal in our yard, and not a bit shy about it. She was mostly white with a few tannish patches, but was obviously a cardinal because of her beak, her distinctive song, and the fact that she was usually in the company of a male cardinal, who looked perfectly normal. (And who I believe deserves special credit for choosing a mate with unorthodox looks, not bowing to peer pressure - or should that be "peep pressure" - nor letting unfounded prejudice stand in the way of true love. Good for him!) At the time, I expected an anomaly of this nature to be nothing more than a flash in the pan, and I never thought I would set eyes on her ever again. Not so fast! I was out last week putting sunflower seeds in the feeder, and there she was on the fence post, big as life and twice as noisy, and the first one at the feeder as soon as I finished with it. Last year, she would only let me get close to her when I had no camera at hand, so I had no chance to snap a picture of this extraordinary creature - in fact, she would probably go right ahead and land on my shoulder, as long as she knew I had a total lack of technology about my person, to record the moment with. So after I spotted her the first time this year, I started bringing my camera outside when I would fill the feeders, and as a result, and a bit of fortuitous luck, I finally have a few bad blurry pictures to prove it, and it goes without saying, I'm not afraid to use them. There's even a wobbly video of her at the feeder, where you can clearly hear her signature cardinal song, in contrast to what she looks like, so she's not just some foreign interloper pretending to be a cardinal. After all, you'd have to believe that the Pope would see right through that, let's face it. In sports news, the heavily-favored New York Rangers finally managed to win a playoff series in fewer than 7 games, which they haven't been able to do in years upon years, giving them a chance to have some much needed time off in between series for a change, and thanks ever so. Flying in the face of conventional wisdom, they promptly went out and lost the first game of the second round, thanks not - and mind you, that was with a scant 1.3 seconds (SECONDS) left in the game, so you can imagine how popular that was on home ice, I shouldn't wonder. (NOT!!!) At this point, the NHL playoffs are down to 8 teams from the original 16, and you can believe me when I say that there is no joy in Detroit, Long Island, Nashville, Ottawa, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Vancouver or Winnipeg, and of course, not to mention, Mudville. In the East, both the #1 and #2 teams advanced as expected, but in the wild and woolly west, it was the #3 Blackhawks and the Wild Card team (improbably called "The Wild," of all things) that knocked off the #1 and #2 teams, put them on the stage coach outta Dodge, and sent them riding off into the sunset, pardner. Meanwhile on the hard wood, the hoops meisters have also moved into the second round of the playoffs - which surprisingly kicked off with powerhouse Oklahoma City nowhere to be seen - and so there is already no joy in Boston, Brooklyn, Dallas, Milwaukee, New Orleans, Portland, Toronto, or San Antonio, home of the defending champion Spurs, alas. Without LeBron "King" James, Miami also missed the boat this year, after being a mainstay of the finals, the last four years in a row. There's still a whole month to go in both sports, before the trophies are handed out in June, and while I don't claim to be a betting expert, I'm sure everyone realizes by now that the one thing I do consider myself an expert about is that I certainly know better than to turn my back on Affirmed, pardner. On the entertainment scene, such as it is, a friend invited us to join her family at the movies for "Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2," and since we had already seen the first one (albeit much later on television) we figured, what the heck. This invitation came with the decided disincentive of catching the early show at 10:00 AM on Saturday, which at least had the advantage of being ridiculously inexpensive, even for 5 of us, and the theater being virtually deserted. (I shouldn't wonder!) It seemed an odd time to me for a movie, but it was all in good fun, so we played along. Fans of the first film would not be disappointed, as the second one picked up, with cast and plot mostly intact, where the first one left off, and just carried on from there. I found it a little long, and it dragged in spots, but it did have moments of genuine hilarity, and where it fell short, it wasn't from lack of trying. (The Mini KISS cover band was a whole different stop on the crazy train, and as surreal as it sounds, actually made sense when they finally pulled into the station, if I do say so myself.) The sparse audience seemed to enjoy themselves, and even Bill had some good things to say about it, and his standards are known to be at the kinds of heights that would give most people nosebleeds. So overall, it was a fun outing, and the price was certainly right, so we had no complaints. I'm not sure that we would sign up for advanced tickets on "Paul Blart 3" right at the moment, but if there ever is such a thing, I would take a page out of Walt Disney's book, and say, "It's a mall, mall world after all!" Good news on the home front was that I was placed at a new temporary assignment, after the previous spot I was working at in Valhalla wrapped up at the end of March. I didn't like to complain about the Valhalla position, because it came along when I was desperate for something to do, but it had many disadvantages, not the least of which was the distance. For someone who has been literally within walking distance of work since at least 1989, suddenly commuting to a job, on highways no less, was a drastic change, and an unwelcome one at that. It added a distasteful element of stress into an otherwise menial task, and after 4 months, I was not sorry to part ways with the place. The new opportunity has some disadvantages as well, and is not actually a whole lot closer, but it's much easier to get to, more relaxing, and makes better use of the office skills that I still have. (My poor last two addled brain cells - which I have renamed for the occasion, and I would tell you what they are, but like everything else nowadays, of course I can't remember - are not going to set the world on fire at this point, but at least they can still operate basic office equipment and utilize simple computer documents without presenting a danger to myself or the community at large.) In any case, at our house, we call this Joy in Mudville, and I'm going to ride this gravy train for all its worth - although I have to say, if and when we get to the part where the Mini KISS band climbs aboard, well then, all bets are off. As much as I might want to "Rock & Roll All Nite and Party Every Day," let's face it, somebody's got to watch out for plagues of locusts and zombie apocalypse, for heaven's sake. Elle