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