Rest Stop

Hello World, Well, things certainly are percolating right along here, and no mistake. We've already reached the last weekend in June (ye gods!) and Wednesday will be July, believe it or not. Also on Wednesday, there will be 183 days ahead of us and 182 days behind us, so that tells you something right there - and not necessarily for the better, I can assure you. And speaking of things that not always better, alert readers may have noticed that none other than Yours Truly was tagged in a photo on FaceBook - that was not only not me, but also from someone I have never heard of, and in a place where I have never been in my entire life. It really makes me wonder why they think that's me, and blithely spreading this misinformation throughout all the wide open wilderness of cyberspace, for all the world to see. Frankly, this casts a completely new and unwelcome shadow of doubt across the veracity of this whole Internet thing, and can't help but call into question the supposed pinpoint accuracy that we have come to expect in our online experiences, I dare say. Next thing you know, they'll be trying to tell me that the Earth isn't flat, but fortunately our old friends the dinosaurs and I can see that one coming a mile away, and then some. Speaking of FaceBook, it reminds me of a recent post from an acquaintance wishing to honor the memory of a dearly departed colleague, with these touching sentiments: "REST IN PIECE." Gee, I certainly hope not! And it goes without saying that the spell-checker's not going to help you on that one, although truth to tell, it shouldn't take a whole suitcase full of brains, and advanced computer software, for anyone to understand the difference between "piece" and "peace," I wouldn't think. Heck, I can do it all by myself, with only my last two addled brain cells, who I have renamed "Brane" and "Sell" for the (homophone) occasion. Of course, last Sunday was Father's Day, and if there was a more perfect time to celebrate all of the magical wonderfulness of these all-too-often unsung heroes in our lives, well, I just don't know what it would be. When it's time to give dear old Dad his due - whether from actual offspring, or devoted pets, or simply grateful hangers-on - we should all make an extra effort to stand up and cheer, by golly. Around here, the resident felines' enthusiasm for their beloved "Daddy Cat" knows no bounds, and they would be glad to shower him with an endless supply of cat poop and hairballs, if left to their own devices. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view - although personally, even though I expected the petitions and press conferences, I thought the protest marches were just way too much) cooler heads prevailed, and we were able to come up with some ideas that were more to his liking. One of these was Pizza Hut's scrumptious new triple chocolate brownie, and let's face it, what's not to love? Admittedly, this was not such a big hit with the cats, which was probably just as well, but it scored high points with Bill, and his renown as a "brownie maven" is firmly established far and wide. My recommendation would be for everyone to run out to the nearest Pizza Hut and pick one up right away, before our cats' underhanded tactics scare them off the idea for good, although at this point, I'm afraid the picket lines are already in place. And speaking of animals run amok, an even more entertaining part of the week was Friday, which was "Take Your Dog To Work Day" according to our friends at Pet Sitters International, who describe themselves as "The world's leading educational organization for professional pet sitters since 1994," and I wouldn't begin to disagree with them. They tell me that the event was first celebrated in 1999, and Friday, June 26, marks its 17th annual observance. It's is an annual event and is always celebrated on the Friday following Father’s Day. They created the day to celebrate the great companions dogs make, promote their adoptions, and support the local pet community as well - and while they encourage employers to experience the joys of all pets in the workplace for one day, not just dogs, there's a reason that their slogan is, "Because who ever heard of working like a cat?!" They welcome cat lovers (and other pets), non-pet owners, and those who cannot participate due to workplace restrictions, and their tracking tools indicate that overall involvement around the event grows each year, with hundreds of thousands of visitors exploring takeyourdog.com each year. Of course, you can also follow TYDTWDay on Facebook and Twitter. In fact, their web site features a picture of President Obama with his dog at the White House, and a Twitter post that asks the musical question, "Don't you wish every day was Take Your Dog To Work Day?" I would say that the President is welcome to run that query past our cats, but he'd have to brave the picket lines first. In other entertainment news, it was many months ago (in fact it might have been last year) we were at the movies and watching upcoming previews - which nowadays could be a showcase for something that's about to open in the next few weeks, or not until 18 months in the future, if then. One that piqued my interest was the story of a young girl whose emotions were portrayed by separate individuals (joy, sadness, fear, anger) and how they work together, or not, in making up her complete personality. Oddly enough, this was exactly the same premise from one of our all-time favorite quirky old TV shows, "Herman's Head," that we used to watch back in the days of steam-powered televisions under the glow of flickering oil lamps. (1991 to be exact.) Apparently we weren't the only people who thought this new animated feature would be right up our alley, because Pixar's "Inside Out" set a record for the highest-grossing opening weekend in their history (over $90 million) not counting sequels. And while we're not ones to rush out and see anything as soon as it hits the theaters, friends of ours wanted to see it, so off we went. I thought it was cute enough, and I don't have to remind anyone that everything is better in 3-D, but I would consider it too intense for younger viewers, with some sophisticated humor that would have been lost on the non-adult set. The animation was very creative, although occasionally overwhelming, with an excellent voice cast featuring the talents of Amy Poehler, Lewis Black, Paula Poundstone, Mindy Kaling, Frank Oz, Laraine Newman, John Ratzenberger, and more. Overall I liked it, and it had moments of genuine hilarity, but it wouldn't supplant "Herman's Head" of sainted memory, when all was said and done. But it was a fun night out, and even better was a sort of make-shift dinner of seasoned curly fries and soft pretzel bites with cheese sauce, which was a change of pace for us from our usual concession stand fare. All of which somehow reminds me of an old vaudeville joke where the comic would complain that his apartment was so small ("How small was it?") that he had to go out in the hallway to change his mind. (Rim shot, please!) A foolish person might say that there wasn't enough room to swing a cat, but I'm not getting on the wrong side of that picket line all over again, thanks not, so I'll just let that rest. In pieces. Elle

A Rose By Any Other Name

Hello World, Happy first day of summer! The summer solstice screeches into the station right on time this Sunday, kicking off the official summer season for real, and don't spare the sherbet and watermelon, my good man! You can also expect all of the Druids you know to go right ahead and party hearty for the occasion - although dragging around slabs of granite to assemble an astronomical monolith might be carrying things just a bit too far, in my opinion. But The Holiday Police notwithstanding, I still maintain that there is no wrong way to celebrate a holiday, and the rest of us are free to greet the changing seasons in whatever way seems most appropriate, from the prosaically mundane to the terrifyingly radical, and everything in between. Now, I don't mind saying that I appreciate a good monolith ritual as much as the next Druid - I mean, fellow - but I have the feeling that I'll be the one in the hammock with the lemonade instead. Of course, last Sunday was Flag Day, and you can be sure that the often over-matched Flag Brigade was on the job and hard at work running up the colors upstairs and downstairs, and long may she wave. It must be said that this whole process is not as easy as it used to be, now with the new air conditioner in the upstairs window, under which the flag bracket is located outside, and summarily cutting off access to the bracket on all sides. Now, it wouldn't do to ignore the Stars & Stripes on their special day, but it was late in the game for coming up with a backup plan under the (pomp and) circumstances, by jingo. The poor beleaguered Flag Brigade (and their last 2 remaining addled brain cells, which I have renamed Dickens & Fenster for the occasion) had no choice but to scramble around and dig out another flag bracket, and hang out a different window to attach it to the rickety window trim with a bunch of ratty bent nails, and looking for all the world like a textbook example of "who did it and ran," and I ought to know. Frankly, it's a wonder that Old Glory stayed upright through it all, and didn't just come tumbling down through the remorseless pull of gravity, and land face-first in the flowerbed underneath, to the detriment of both, I shouldn't wonder. You know it's late in June when the playoffs are finally over for the winter sports, and at long last we have reached that point in both the NBA and NHL - and that sound you hear is one gigantic raspberry from disappointed fans all over the country, thanks not. The Larry O'Brien Trophy for hoops mastery went to the surprising Golden State Warriors, who trounced Lebron James and the Cavaliers in 6 games in such decisive fashion (one might even say, "in a cavalier manner" - oof!!!) that Lebron didn't even win the series MVP as usual, even in a losing cause. Meanwhile on the frozen front, the scrappy Chicago Blackhawks skated off with their third Stanley Cup in 6 years, besting the Tampa Bay Lightning also in 6 games. So congratulations are in order for the players and fans in these 2 cities, and a rousing chorus (albeit belligerent) of "wait until next year" for the rest of us - and once again, thanks ever so much not. And speaking of late in June, we have no lack of wild roses to cheer us from every corner of the yard, with their varied palette of creamy petals and delightful fragrance, that can't help but offset those pesky thorns. It's also late enough for our pink and white astilbes to spring forth, and even the early daylilies are putting on a show in the vibrant hues that are their hallmark, and a more welcome sight would be hard to find. Which reminds me that last week at church, we heard the parable of the mustard seed, and the pastor, who is apparently botany-challenged, was trying his best to relate it to everyday garden plants that we see around us all the time. For some reason, he chose to wax eloquent about roses, of all things, and he explained that even though the flower fades, it holds within the seeds that will yield more new plants next season. (???) Here I'm thinking, this would come as a mind-numbing surprise after hundreds of years of cultivating roses, by scientists, experts, and devoted amateurs, that they could have just scattered a packet of seeds instead, and ended up with rows upon rows of roses. (NOT!!!) The way things were going, I'm surprised that he didn't tell us that we could grow our own birds from bird seed. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up. Also not making things up, you can believe me when I say that I saw the most amazing little red sports car coming home from work a few weeks ago, and there was no missing this little beauty, because it was just screaming for attention. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, and looked like one of those concept models they display at auto shows, but never see the light of day in the real world, because they would be too expensive, wildly impractical, and have only the narrowest of appeal to the general driving public. The first thing you would notice about it (besides being red) is that it was so low-slung that it appeared to be below ground level, and you would have to climb down into it from the street, as impossible as that sounds. Seriously, if you were standing right next to it, it wouldn't even come up to your knees. I can't figure out how anyone could drive the darned thing, because you'd have to be laying down the whole time, like a recumbent bicycle, and you would need someone perched on the roof, just to tell you where you were going. Of course, it's entirely possible that the engineers have taken this into account, and it already comes with its own built-in periscope so you can see the road ahead, and not just the ceiling of the interior, but I have no independent corroboration of this, and I would not care to speculate. For all I know, it might be one of those newfangled vehicles that drives all by itself, and the passengers are just along for the ride, so who cares if they can see where they're going or not. That is, unless it's been programmed by a bunch of Druids, in which case the passengers would wind up going to the monolith rituals on Sunday, whether they wanted to or not, and the heck with hammocks and lemonade, regardless, and don't say I didn't warn you. Elle

Don't Shoot The Messenger

Hello World, Well, as the late and lamented Aldous Huxley once observed, it's a Brave New World out there, and he wasn't just shooting off his mouth, I can assure you. For everyone out there in the wide world of sports, like me, who thought we would never again see another Triple Crown winner in our lifetime, the unthinkable has happened, like a bolt out of the blue, and I for one, never saw it coming. The 147th running of the venerable Belmont Stakes was on June 6, and astounded racing fans cheered as the favorite, American Pharoah, trotted home with the first Triple Crown in 37 years, since Affirmed in 1978 - and I don't mind saying, a record that seemed destined never to be broken, the way things had been going. (Just ask California Chrome, Smarty Jones, Big Brown, I'll Have Another, Funny Cide, Real Quiet - and don't even get me started on War Emblem, for pity's sake.) Of course, it's a well-worn axiom that records were meant to be broken, and high time that the history books are being rewritten at long last, and putting the tattered shreds of that moldy old curse to bed once and for all. I'm sure that all of us want to send along our heartiest congratulations to American Pharoah, his owners and trainers, for making history and taking his place among the greats before him. Not to quibble, and taking nothing away from the winner, but I was surprised that the race featured what I considered an extremely small field of only 8 horses, and I would have expected it to be far bigger than that, especially with a Triple Crown on the line. There's usually between 10-14 starters for this race, and you have to go all the way back to 2007 to find a line-up as small as this one, oddly enough. Even stranger, both Dortmund and Firing Line were notably among the missing for the event, after slugging it out with American Pharoah in the previous two races, and you would figure, just itching to play spoiler at the end there. There's a rumor that Dortmund was washing his hair, and Firing Line had "a thing," but personally, I have my doubts. Now, I will not stand up and take responsibility for the atrocious weather that hammered Texas a couple of weeks ago, with tornadoes, flooding and widespread destruction on a mammoth scale, but for people in the local area, I'm absolutely prepared to take the blame for the appalling conditions last week, when we threw caution to the wind and bought a new window air conditioner, and it must be said, with total disregard for the consequences. I said to Bill later that it would just about certainly guarantee that the temperature would never climb above 60 degrees for the rest of the year, and in fact, would most likely usher in an unprecedented cold wave as soon as we plugged it in. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened, with gray clammy days full of chilly blustery weather, pelting rain, gale force winds, and plunging temperatures to make you think more of hot chocolate by the fireside, rather than cool lemonade outside in a hammock, I can tell you that. The days were bleak, and even worse, overnight lows in the 40s of all things (and this is in June, mind you) to make even the stoutest believer in global warming have second thoughts. Frankly, I'm surprised that it didn't just spawn an entire new Ice Age in the region, complete with glaciers, ice sheets, and permafrost on all sides. Of course, it does no good to complain about the weather, heaven knows, and it can always be worse - and often in the most unexpected ways. Alert readers couldn't help but notice this curious tidbit on the AOL Welcome Screen last week, describing how beleaguered Mexicans were battening down the proverbial hatches, as it were, in the face of the impending Hurricane Blanca: ========================= As the hurricane hurdled toward the Baja California peninsula Sunday, people prepared by boarding up the windows of homes and businesses ========================= Presumably they meant the hurricane "hurtled" toward land, as opposed to hurdling - although truth to tell, the mental image of a massive ominous storm system skipping over the hurdles like a track & field standout has such a delightfully incongruous appeal to it, that I rather prefer it to the correct terminology in this case, I don't mind saying. Meanwhile in other sports news, it would come as a surprise to nobody that the mighty Yankees of lore and legend are leading their division, as well they should, and is only to be expected by their legion of fans, who consider first place as their birth-right, and will brook no contradiction on the subject. But oddly enough, somehow or other, their crosstown rivals, the unheralded Mets have managed to sneak their way into the top of the standings in their own division, right under the very noses of the other teams who ought to be there, and in spite of being only a couple of games over .500 for the season, so that tells you something right there. The pundits can probably tell us when the last time was that both New York teams were in first place at the same time, although our old friends the ill-mannered dinosaurs snickering in The Peanut Gallery are trying to convince me that it pre-dates the invention of fire, and sports records don't go back that far - but I have long since learned (and often to my regret) to place no faith in their acerbic pronouncements, and I refuse to corroborate that assertion. Of course, it's early days yet, and success in June can easily wilt in July and August, but for fans of perennial also-rans, we take our wins where we can get them, and don't take them for granted. Let's go Mets! Speaking of taking things for granted, I'm sure we all realize by now that technology can be a double-edged sword, and all you can do is take the good along with the bad, and hope for the best. Most devices nowadays are subject to a rather aggressive auto-correct feature, leading to the often inadvertent humor that results from its heavy-handed meddling in routine matters that would have been better off without it. I recently received a series of text messages from a colleague about a planned get-together we were trying to organize for later in the month, but somehow hit a little bit wide of the mark, through no fault of their own: ==================== It's called the CT Irish Fest At the North Haven Fairgrounds Opens at noon ==================== ====================== And we could meet you at the shooting center in Trumbull CT ====================== ============================= That was shopping center not shooting ============================= Ya gotta love it! Talk about shooting yourself in the foot, Quick Draw, that's about as mixed up as a duck in a shooting gallery, and not to mention, sure as shooting. Of course, I like shopping as much as the next fellow, so I guess now that's been cleared up, I can leave my shooting irons at home, and more's the pity, I'm sure. After all, I have plenty of other things to do, heaven knows. I know it's still early days yet, but pretty soon hurricane season will be upon us, and I really have to practice my hurdling. Elle

Dry Run

Hello World, Happy June! And so we find ourselves at long last (or maybe not so long after all) in the fabled month dedicated to proms and dads, brides and grads - not to mention, anyone else who wants to jump aboard that celebration bandwagon, and ride that gravy train for all it's worth. Around the old homestead, we closed out the previous month in recognition of Decoration Day on the 30th by flying the colors upstairs and downstairs, and adding some much needed patriotic flair to the neighborhood, which was much improved by the addition, if I do say so myself. And once again, the Flag Brigade is to be commended for remembering to bring the flags in again at dusk, and not leaving them outside all night and vulnerable to all of our various rampaging wildlife, especially our juvenile delinquent squirrels - and who I don't mind saying, are no respecters of crown or country, creed or conscience, and don't even get me started on the bird feeders, ye gods. I have yet to find anything to keep the squirrels in line, but on the other hand, if that were even possible, I would have long since used it on our diabolical kitties first, and that's not just a load of kitty litter, believe me. Now around the outside of the old homestead, the time has surely come, and not a moment too soon, for our cornucopia of wild roses to be busting out all over, and they surely have, in a vast array of colors from the palest whites to the deepest maroons, and everything in between. Also popping open right on schedule is the lovely mountain laurel, with its bouquets of little pink blossoms, greeting our welcoming eyes like tiny seashells showing off their pearls. The wild roses will do this all summer, but the mountain laurel, like the lilac, has a blooming season that is unfortunately all too brief, so we have to get out there and enjoy it while we can. And as long as we're out in the wild, it reminds me that I found myself coming home from work behind a large and ungainly truck from a local merchant, who is known as Rodrigo's Landscaping, according to the signs painted on the doors and tailgate of the vehicle. It goes on to list the phone number, and assures me that I can get in touch with them for all of my assorted garden requirements, such as tree and stump removal, and what they describe as "prunning storm damage." I don't personally know what "prunning" is (and you'll find that your spell-checker, however rudimentary, doesn't think much of it either) but it certainly doesn't sound good, and in fact, if confronted with the possibility of it, you'll more than likely find me "prunning" away from it, rather than the opposite, I dare say. And speaking of people not saying what they mean (one hopes!) we have the Empire City Casino at the old Yonkers Racetrack, who went to all the trouble to take out a gigantic multi-color full-page ad with the following copy, presumably designed to entice even the least interested of bystanders: ================================= CHEER ON AMERICAN PHAROAH AS HE GOES FOR THE TRIPLE CROWN Watch the Belmont Stakes track side and enjoy live music and drink specials SATURDAY JUNE 13 @ 4-7 PM ================================== I figure those people are going to be in for a big surprise on the 13th, since the actual Belmont Stakes is happening the week before, on June 6 instead. Heck, Bill said that he could just about guarantee that he could pick the winner of the Belmont Stakes on June 13th, and frankly, I wouldn't doubt it one bit. After all, there's nothing like 20/20 hindsight, I always say. Of course, thanks to American Pharoah winning the Kentucky Derby and then the Preakness - and I might add, handily, and in impressive fashion - it sets up once again the potential for a Triple Crown winner, and we all know what that means by now. The world gets turned on its collective ear, Belmont Racetrack will be reduced to a multi-media circus and feeding frenzy, and everyone not living under a rock will be all agog at the prospect of history in the making - including, no doubt, space aliens from far distant galaxies and paranormal phenomenon from the netherworld, I shouldn't wonder. Of course, it goes without saying that each of us should be more than happy to wish the favorite all the best in his efforts, but I wouldn't go ahead and print up those commemorative T-shirts just yet, because we've all long since seen this numerous times before, and somehow or other, the elusive Triple Crown remains just as unattainable as ever. Every time we reach this point, the optimists hope for a miracle to finally tip the scales and rewrite the ending, but since 1979, all of those hopes have been dashed in the dirt of a thousand thundering hoofbeats, and the remorseless fates show no pity or partiality. I won't invoke the evil spirit of You-Know-Who from the great beyond, but I'm sure we're all thinking the same thing here. In conclusion, here's a little bit of horsemanship humor for you, and it's not just a lot of horsefeathers, believe me. ================================= Mounting a horse is actually very easy if it is done properly. A rider can only mount a horse from one side because a horse only likes to be mounted from one side. The left side is right and the right side is wrong. You're right to be left and wrong to be right. If you mount from the front, you mount from the right, which is then the left because your right is its left, and the left the right, keeping in mind that the left is right and the right is wrong. Put your left to your right and step so your right is to the wrong and now your right is opposite its left and left the right. To right right is to the left and to right is wrong is to the right, but backwards, the right is right and the left is wrong only when your right is on its wrong, and the left is on its right. Switching right to left and left to right is wrong. Right is wrong and left is right only from the front or else the left is right and the right is wrong. =================================== Well, that certainly does clear things up nicely, and as much as I would love to stay here and just go on palavering with the rest of the nags, like they say at the racetrack, I really must be prunning. Elle