Fast And Loose

Hello World, Long have the poets wondered, "What is so rare as a day in June?" and well may they wonder, indeed. For the most part, the weather in our environs has been a very fickle friend for sure (and the flying fickle finger of fate from the old "Laugh-In" days would be no match for it) but there have been a handful of days that were so outstanding, it would just take your breath away. Unfortunately, these treasures have been interspersed with alarming conditions of such miserable wretchedness that we can draw no other conclusion but that our old nemesis Comrade Mischka is once again up to his old tricks at the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, da? By the way, I love Mother Russia. Speaking of spreading the love around (spasibo, tovarich!) the new month had hardly even gotten underway when suddenly here we found ourselves welcoming in the first of Ramadan on Tuesday, of all things. Ramadan is one of the slipperiest movers and shakers of all the movable feasts, flitting about anywhere from spring to fall and back again, with no rhyme or reason, and leaving its bewildered followers bobbing it its capricious wake, and fumbling around like "who did it and ran." Most of the time, movable feasts are nothing more than confusing and distracting oddities, and their adherents simply traipse along after them, wherever in the calendar they may land, without much in the way of repercussions whenever that might be. But Ramadan has got some serious game going for it, where the faithful fast during the daylight hours, so the difference between strict observance of the festival in June, compared to November, can be dramatic - and that's not just the junk food talking, believe me. And speaking of fast [Please insert elaborate eye rolling from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery at this blatant misuse of homonym humor] I'm sure that everyone realizes that if Memorial Day has come and gone, then the venerable Indianapolis 500 has surely come and gone right along with it, by golly. This year's Bump around the Brickyard (known as "the 100th Indianapolis 500 presented by PennGrade Motor Oil" for sponsorship reasons) saw a crowded field of 33 drivers take the starting flag, with numerous previous winners among them (although a noticeable dearth of female drivers this time around, with only Pippa Mann strapped in for the fair sex) and a surprising win by rookie driver Alexander Rossi of Andretti Herta Autosport. (Those of us "of a certain age" will remember Mario Andretti in his prime racing days with the legendary Andy Granatelli, who took an unheard-of curiosity known as STP oil treatment, and through sheer bravado, turned it into one of the most recognizable products the world over.) One interesting tidbit about this year's race was that the winner Rossi, with a slim lead in mere seconds, gambled on making it to the finish line on the remains of his car's gasoline and fumes, rather than lose time by taking another pit stop to refuel, and basically coasted into the checkered flag in one of the slowest finishes that has ever been seen in Indy history. Talk about fasting - maybe that wasn't such a blatant misuse of homonym humor after all! In other sports news, the NHL Stanley Cup finals have come down to the mighty Pittsburgh Penguins from the east, and the San Jose Sharks from the west, with the defending champion Chicago Blackhawks already having been eliminated. Not so on the hoops front, where the defending Golden State Warriors are on the prowl for a repeat over the Cleveland Cavaliers, and looking pretty darned serious about it, by all accounts. On the diamond, the Yankees climbed out of the basement over Tampa Bay, making it back to .500 for the first time in over a month, while the somewhat erratic Mets continue to tantalize with a respectable 34-26 record, and only 3 games behind the first-place Nationals. The surprising Cubbies can still claim the best record in all of baseball by a wide margin, and a comfortable 9 game lead in their division, but it is only June after all, and personally, I wouldn't print up those commemorative championship jerseys just yet. I have no reason to believe that the evil spirit of Affirmed has anything against the Cubs per se, but let's face it, "The Curse of the Billy Goat" has successfully been working its local magic keeping Chicago out of the World Series since 1945, and probably doesn't need any outside help to keep this going indefinitely. Heck, if the billy goat had been Russian, I'm sure that Comrade Mischka could guarantee that the Cubs would never win again throughout the whole of history, not for any amount of rubles, vodka, borsht, or caviar, nyet? By the way, I'd like to take this opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I love Mother Russia. On the home front, the yard continues to dazzle on every side, with the stately mountain laurel popping open in pearly pink perfection, followed by the daylilies and tiger lilies, and more chickweed and false asters than anyone could ever imagine in one place at the same time. Our old stalwart rosebushes are outdoing themselves, even my grandmother's ancient mini floribunda, still going strong all these many decades later, including being transplanted several times through a variety of locations near and far. (Not to cast aspersions, but at some point I have to wonder if there isn't some part of it that's actually rampant alien mutant poison ivy, and it will outlast us all, I dare say.) And while we're on the topic of things that should outlast us all, you would think that a 16-pound tool being used only occasionally by a real estate management company would fit that bill to a T, but you'd be sadly mistaken. Our young and eager maintenance staffer came bounding into the office recently holding both parts of the offending equipment in separate hands, and pointed out that he was going to need a new one in order to continue breaking up the damaged concrete bumpers around the parking lot, since it was the only one heavy enough for the job. I asked him to write down what he needed as a replacement, which I must say that he did not only willingly, but promptly to boot. But it was with some surprise that I noticed later that what he requested (apparently without irony) was what he described as a 16-pound "sludge hammer," which admittedly came as news to me, but on second thought, has its own quixotic sort of logic about it that makes it seem perfectly reasonable. Of course, this is coming from one of the only people you will ever meet who regularly travels around with a sledge hammer and wedge in the car at all times, since I don't bother to unpack them every year when I come back from camping, and notwithstanding the elaborate eye rolling and ill-mannered snickering from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery dogging my heels, as it were. On the other hand, at least I knew enough not to get on the wrong side of Caveman Thak at the controls of the Kremlinhenge prehistoric weather machine, who summarily ushered in a climate cataclysm that the giant reptiles have not recovered from to this very day, and no one to blame but their own snarky selves, so there. And may I just say for the record that I have always loved Mother Russia. Elle