Cloud Nine

Hello World, Happy Memorial Day weekend! Although I have it on good authority (well, social media, anyway) that like Yom Kippur and other solemn occasions, you're not supposed to wish anyone a "happy" Memorial Day, because there's nothing happy about it. But around here, we always say that there's no wrong way to celebrate a holiday, and we're counting on the plucky Flag Brigade to hoist the colors on Monday (as well as Tuesday, in acknowledgement of actual Decoration Day) in recognition of the selfless sacrifices from generations of brave men and women in uniform. At least, weather permitting, and depending on the last two addled brain cells of The Flag Brigade (which I have renamed G.I. Joe and G.I. Jane in honor of the event) always with the proviso that we may be expecting too much of them, alas. For everyone out there in the wide world with an opportunity to enjoy a long 3-day holiday weekend, I hope it would be all that you could wish for - and don't spare the barbecues, parades, and fireworks, if you please! After last week's brutally unexpected heat wave, which set high temperature records all over the region, the local weather settled back into some chilly and damp conditions that had many of us wondering if this really was the last weekend in May, and June was right around the corner. (I was expecting complaints from the robins wearing earmuffs, and bumblebees in fur coats, so I wasn't surprised by the protest signs, but frankly, I thought the press conferences were just a bit too much.) But it hasn't slowed down our cavalcade of spring flowers, including some tender pink roses, colorful columbine, and fluffy white cimicifuga, which all seem early to me. On the other hand, the wild phlox popped open in the backyard right on schedule, with its heavenly fragrance sure to be a tonic for what ails you, and thanks ever so. On the weedier side of things, there's plenty of false asters everywhere you look, and I noticed the poke weed is already about 3-feet tall, so that's certainly not wasting any time. Speaking of tall, it would be impossible to miss the menacing clumps of rampant alien mutant poison ivy in the ivy patch and elsewhere in the landscape, laughing at hot weather and cold weather alike, dry or wet, and easily fending off all other neighboring species, even the hardy Thorndale and relentlessly invasive porcelain berry, without breaking a sweat. No press conferences for them, by golly. Hard on the heels (literally) of the Kentucky Derby earlier in the month, the 142nd running of the Preakness Stakes was last Saturday, and what a difference a couple of weeks makes, Mister Ed. (You youngsters out there will have to ask your grandparents about that one, I'm afraid.) Pimlico attracts more of a "jeans and T-shirts" crowd than the fancy dress revelers at Churchill Downs, and gaudy hats are more of a rarity than otherwise. Also unlike the roiling sea of horseflesh at the Derby, the Preakness fielded a mere 10 mounts, of which fully half of them had skipped the Derby altogether - with only Always Dreaming, Classic Empire, Gunnevera, Hence, and Looking at Lee running in both races. Unfortunately for fans of Triple Crown glory, the evil spirit of Affirmed struck early, and even though Derby winner Always Dreaming left the gate as the 6/5 favorite, he couldn't keep up the pace, and finished a disappointing 8th on a fast and clean track. Even the 2-1 second favorite Classic Empire, who ran a strong race, was edged out at the wire by the unsung Cloud Computing, a 14-1 nobody who came out of nowhere to win by a head at a peppy 1:55:59, and still pulling away at the end. It should be interesting to see which horses from both races make the trip to the Belmont in a few weeks, and whether one of the two previous winners takes a second jewel in the Triple Crown, or if like last year, all three races are won by 3 different horses. Or, as the Wizard of Oz once famously observed, "Now, that's a horse of a different color." On the local scene, because we had already seen the first one, last week we headed to the movies and took in the new "Guardians of the Galaxy, Volume 2" in glorious IMAX 3-D, and found it highly diverting. Even though the film had only been out for a couple of weeks, there was still a mere smattering of spectators in the cavernous theater at the time - although I will say they made the most of it, and seemed to have a rollicking time throughout. Like many offerings from the Marvel Studio stables, it helps a lot to have already seen the first one, and perhaps by virtue of that, this one is undeniably a whole lot funnier, and seems to bounce along effortlessly from one escapade to the next. [SPOILER ALERT: If you don't laugh out loud at the part about David Hasslehoff, I'm afraid that you would have to be declared legally dead.] The new one also seemed to hold together a lot more cohesively in terms of story, and the characters were more fleshed out and interesting besides - although admittedly, it's difficult for me to take Kurt Russell too seriously after playing second fiddle to a chimpanzee in "The Barefoot Executive." But nonetheless, it never lags, is full of high spirits, plenty of action, genuine hilarity, and eye-popping special effects, so it has a lot to recommend it. Of course, all movies go better with pizza, and this did not disappoint - even though the cinema minions have taken out the tables and chairs in the lobby, so now you have to eat it in your movie seats, but was still a winning combination for us. Sort of like winning the Double Crown, if only there was such a thing, alas. Or as we say in the Emerald City, "Now, that's a horse of a different color." Elle

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

Hello World, Well, as they say in the venerable old doggerel, "I was walking in the park one day, in the merry, merry month of May ... " and it's no wonder, with all of the enticements the month has to offer. Around our place, the graceful astilbe and fragrant cimicifuga have already opened, along with the lovely lavender allium, always a lively addition to the flower beds. The local weather has taken a turn for the strange, going from the 50's and 60's of last week to the unseasonably unexpected 80's and 90's this week, all at a gallop, thanks not. I can tell you that the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when there was actually Spring, with actual Spring conditions and not just in name only, where the weather acted as a transition between winter and summer for real, and was not totally all over the map the way it is nowadays. I'm telling you, if the weather was as unpredictable as this in ancient days, our prehistoric forebears would never have created giant monolithic structures to mark the seasons, they would have just thrown darts at a board, like modern meteorologists do now on TV. This is what they call progress. Speaking of weather, last Saturday was really one for the books - it poured rain for about 24 hours straight, starting Friday night and all day Saturday without let up. Originally the TV dart-throwers - excuse me, I mean weather forecasters (AS IF !!!) - had said it was going to continue on like that the same way on Sunday as well. So it was a welcome relief to be greeted instead on Sunday morning with glorious blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and delightful temperatures, just begging everyone to head outdoors and soak it all in. I mentioned to the pastor at church later, the oft-observed foul weather phenomenon that God couldn't care less about the Indianapolis 500, but He doesn't dare rain on Mother's Day, heaven knows. In fact, Pastor was so taken with this insight that he repeated it from the pulpit, and let's face it, once you hear it in church, it must be true, after all. It's also true that the playoffs continue in basketball and hockey, but frankly, without the Rangers in the picture, it's become more of a ho-hum affair than otherwise at our house - and Anaheim, Nashville, Ottawa, and Pittsburgh can just go ahead and carry on without us. In hoops action, meanwhile, they've gotten down to their final four as well, with Boston, Cleveland, Golden State, and San Antonio still battling it out for all the marbles. Cleveland and Pittsburgh were the ultimate champions in their respective sports last year, so it should be interesting to see if they can repeat this time around. Out in the fresh air, the Yankees are sporting an impressive 24-14 record so far, and sitting atop their division standings, while the hapless Mets at 16-23 are in third place and already 8 games out. Of course, there are plenty of games left to play, but if they're going to stumble along playing .400 ball all the way, it's going to be a long season. Also going on right now is the NCAA Golf Tournament, originating from a variety of regional championship rounds at local courses all across the country, and thus creating an opportunity of tossing the college students at the gators as a change of pace - presumably on the theory that the cream of higher education would have a better chance of fending them off than some of the doddering old seniors on the regular PGA Tour. (Talking to YOU, Ernie Els!) I don't know if that's actually true, but I did notice one significant difference so far between the energetic amateurs and their professional counterparts. In college golf, when the competition is tight and every stroke counts, if a well hit putt fails to find the cup, it's a commonplace sight for the disheartened player to throw their arms around the coach and cry - which is certainly something you never see at the pro level, I can tell you that. In fact, there's just about nothing more stoic than a tour pro watching an errant shot slice into the bleachers among the spectators, hit a tree and bounce into the parking lot, or splash into the water to be snatched up by the ever-present alligators, I shouldn't wonder. Heck, they don't even curse, like the pitcher who just gave up a grand slam home run in the 9th inning, the most you ever see them do is bite their lip, albeit while silently heaping invective on the caprices of the golfing gods who are clearly toying with them for the sheer sport of it. Personally, I think they would feel a lot better if they followed the students' lead, and just broke down and cried instead. In other college sports news, I was surprised to discover that there is such a thing as "Spring Football," in fact, it's apparently well established enough that they show it on television. And that's even without feeding players to the alligators, supposedly, although I understand that Wisconsin's Bucky Badger mascot seems to be missing, but that's nothing more than a coincidence, I'm sure. Alert readers on social media may have noticed that Bill traveled solo last week into the wild and woolly steel canyons of midtown Manhattan to enjoy the melodic and meditative sounds of Snatam Kaur at the Town Hall Theater. Since he was in Times Square, he opted for a hot pretzel and soft drink for dinner, and he tucked into that al fresco - and of course, it's a well-recognized axiom that everything tastes better with good old Al, I don't mind saying. But all of this left me high and dry and on my own for dinner that night, and I don't have to remind anyone that idle hands are the Devil's playthings, and anyone who knows me can tell you that I am such a culinary menace that I have been summarily banned from more kitchens than Agent Orange. (Good heavens - now THERE'S a cultural reference that's lost on young people nowadays, I dare say!) I was daunted at the prospect of poking around in the freezer for something that even a simpleton like me could manage to warm up without posing a danger to myself or the community at large. (Or as Woody Allen once famously quipped in "Annie Hall" about frozen TV dinners, "Oh, I don't heat them up, I just suck 'em frozen.") Suddenly my eyes alighted on a package on the counter, identifying itself as Prego Ready Meals, which immediately got my attention. The directions say that all you do is stand it up in the microwave (it's pouch-shaped and designed to conveniently stand up all by itself) press the button for 1 minute, and that's all there is to it. The package has an ingenious self-venting feature built in, so it doesn't explode all over the inside of the oven, and when it's finished, you can just pull it right open, as easy as pie, as it were. The directions point out that you are welcome to then pour the contents out into a bowl or plate, and eat it at a table like civilized people - or conversely (or perhaps, perversely might be a better term under the circumstances) just go right ahead, grab any handy plastic utensil in the Break Room or dish drainer, and eat it right out of the pouch, one imagines, while standing up over the sink. I admit this concept has a lot of appeal for busy folks on the go, looking for a satisfying warm snack, but I couldn't help but think, oh the depths to which we have sunk, after millions of years of evolution and all of our modern conveniences, and here we are today, eating out of pouches like the most primitive caveman. It's a lucky thing that no one is counting on us to build the pyramids, or Stonehenge, or Machu Picchu, because we're obviously not equal to the task, and even our modern dart-throwers, centuries later, are only an incremental improvement over our ancient ancestors with no technology at their disposal. I'd be happy to give the weather prognosticators a chance to refute that assertion, but it seems that they're all in the Break Room at the moment, standing over the sink and eating out of pouches. Elle

Wet And Wild

Hello World, Happy Mothers Day weekend! The time has definitely come, as they say, to cherish the ladies - whether actual moms, grandmoms, moms-in-law, pet moms, "like-a-mom-to-me," or just general maternal figures in our lives, by whose very presence make our world a better place. All these unsung heroines really want is to be appreciated - although you also can't go wrong with jewelry, flowers, or chocolate, and plenty of it. For all of us cat moms out there, I'm afraid that catnip mice will be the order of the day, which is the feline equivalent of macaroni necklaces and handmade ashtrays, I presume. Oh well, it's the thought that counts, although it's true that it reminds me rather of Dorothy Parker's classic satire about "One Perfect Rose," which she summed up with this acerbic observation - ============================== Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose. ============================== In our little corner of Paradise, a leisurely gambol around the property would be sure to delight the senses, with waves of jaunty buttercups leading the way, and azaleas in many colors taking it from there. The wisteria upstairs is going like gangbusters, and the bees are loving every minute of it, I can tell you that. Our neighbor's spirea is ready to put on a show, and around town, the majestic chestnuts and stately dogwoods are visions in creamy white blossoms. At commercial buildings where the landscapers have put in tulips, it looks like Holland itself, with rows of riotous color everywhere you turn, and each vibrant flower bed determined to outshine the next, or know the reason why, yumpin' yiminy. Even better, wooden shoes are not required. Alert readers may recall Bill's heroic efforts to chop the recalcitrant wild rosebush down to size in the backyard, in an attempt to clear out room for the new hydrangea there. He said at the time that, inexplicably, the old hydrangea was actually still out there, under all of the overgrowth, which, like Jimmy Hoffa and Judge Crater before that, we had long since given up on - with regrets once again to the Justice Department. But when I went outside to check up on it, I could find no sign of it, or anything with the slightest resemblance to hydrangea in the clearing, try as I might. Apparently that was because, somehow entirely on its own initiative, the old hydrangea picked itself up and implausibly moved itself about 3-feet over and 2-feet back from where it started, and so it wasn't at all where I expected it to be, especially after all this time in the same place. But sure enough, once you look far enough away from its original starting place, there it is, big as life and fit as a fiddle, and regarding the slovenly wild rosebush with the contempt of a battle-scarred veteran of countless campaigns against the likes of such lesser upstarts that are no match for it. Obviously the old soldier needs no accolades from me, heaven knows, but one can't help but admire its spunk and tenacity in the face of relentless onslaught. And that goes double for the Thomson's gazelles, thank you very much. Meanwhile in sports, the NHL playoffs are down to their final four, and legions of disappointed fans in Edmonton, New York, St. Louis, and Washington DC can only console themselves with their memories, and hopes of better luck next year. The Rangers played Ottawa tough, with several games going into overtime, but ultimately could not prevail against the stronger team. The Capitals rallied from a 3-1 deficit to make a series out of it with the Penguins, but fell to Pittsburgh in the end, while the surprising Nashville continues to prove their unlikely playoff run is no fluke. The way to the finals for them is through Anaheim, while Ottawa and Pittsburgh square off, to decide which two teams will play for Lord Stanley's Cup. Out in the wild and woolly outdoors, it's the gators against the golfers at The Players Championship from Ponte Vedra Beach in Florida, and while I admit that I've yet to see an alligator that can sink a 60-foot putt, I've also never seen a golfer that can outrun a rampaging 12-foot alligator, so my money's on the gators every time. In other sports news, the Kentucky Derby came and went on the first Saturday in May as it does, with all of the hoopla and pageantry that it is so well known for, I dare say. The weather was somewhat changeable there, but utterly failed to subdue the boisterous crowd, or the steady parade of costumes, fancy dresses, spectacular hats, or goofy accessories bedecking the thundering herd on every side. In the midst of that carnival atmosphere, the race itself is almost an afterthought, and a month later, barely anyone would be able to tell you who actually won the darned thing, I'm sure. A crowded field of 20 horses took to the sloppy track at Churchill Downs, with the nominal favorites - Classic Empire, Irish War Cry, and McCraken - going off at 7/1 odds. The announcers had made it plain that there was no one clear favorite for the race, and as much as the bettors had finally settled on Irish War Cry at the last, in the broadcast booth, the commentators picked about 9 different horses between them, so there was obviously no consensus to be had, even among the equine insiders. A media darling was Patch, an unfortunate colt who had lost an eye, but scorning pity, was still prepared to race his heart out on sheer gumption alone. With that many horses all crammed into the same race, you would think that there would be at least one female jockey among the crowd, but not so - oddly enough, this was like the "old (jockey) boy's club" of yesteryear once again. The race itself was unremarkable, and over 175,000 saw Always Dreaming win by more than 2 lengths in what I would disdain to call "the most exciting two minutes in sports," and that's not just the evil spirit of Affirmed talking, believe me. The supposed favorites were never a factor, with only Classic Empire finishing as high as 4th in a race with a sluggish pace of 2:03:59 that would get nobody's attention. One notable exception was poor Thunder Snow, a visitor from the Middle Eastern deserts, who was so spooked at the idea of running on a muddy track, that he flew into a panic out of the starting gate, rearing back with his legs all going in different directions at once, and lurching around in a desperate attempt to find someplace dry to land his hooves. They walked him back to the stables and dried him off, and I can only imagine that with this soggy welcome, it did not endear The Bluegrass State to him in any way, but left him longing for the oil fields and dust storms of Dubai once more. I have the feeling that next time, he'll take a page out of the Dutch Boy's book, and wear his wooden shoes instead. Elle

Every Other Inch A Lady

Hello World, Feliz Cinco de Mayo! [Please insert Mariachi band playing "The Mexican Hat Dance" here.] Hard on the heels of "Star Wars Day" ("May the Fourth be with you!") I hope that everyone out there in the wide world handed the Napoleonic forces their collective hats, and showed them the proverbial door, in honor of this muy excellente opportunity to party mucho - and that goes double for the tequila, amigo mio. I don't know if they have The Holiday Police in Mexico, trying vainly to maintain the sanctity of the proper traditions for the Battle of the Puebla observances, but around here, it's any old excuse is good enough reason for a party, and the heck with the details. As far as I'm concerned, there's no wrong way to celebrate, from the palest gringo to the swarthiest hombre, and everything in between, and don't spare the maracas, muchachos. Senorita, more tequila, por favor! Around the old homestead, we've been delighted at the timely blooming of our lilac, and because we have a mismatched pair of them on either side of an arbor in the backyard, walking between them and inhaling their exquisite fragrance may be as close to heaven as we'll ever get. It didn't take much encouragement for the English wood hyacinths to spring up all over the yard, and even the columbine and cranesbill have started to pop open, although it seems way too early for that. Our azaleas are just starting to get underway, and the lavender cascades of wisteria will soon be a vision of loveliness from our second floor windows, and twice as welcome at that. In an effort to create space for our new hydrangea, Bill took on the Herculean task of chopping back the sprawling wild rosebush along the collapsed retaining wall, unfortunately with regrets to the Department of Justice that we have still uncovered no sign of either Jimmy Hoffa or Judge Crater - although the errant herd of Thomson's gazelles cavorting in there will be glad to be returned to their rightful place on the African plains, I'm sure. Our neighbor's snowball bush is looking very jolly indeed, and for anybody who worried that our onion grass suffered from the ravages of winter weather, you'll be relieved to hear that it's already standing tall in sturdy clumps everywhere, giving the lawn the bedraggled look of an unkempt relative whose personal grooming leaves much to be desired. It can be more than a handful to keep ahead of the property in the fullness of its springtime revival, and now we'll have to do it without even the gazelles, alas. Also on the local seen (that's a pun) the laser treatment on my right eye continues to pay dividends, and making slow but steady progress in the right direction. At my appointment last week, I was actually reading the eye chart at the 20/30 line (without glasses) and almost 20/25 - which is endlessly astounding to me when I consider that I had been using corrective lenses for distance for more than 50 years previously. Of course, now at my age, I have fallen victim to the common ailment on the other side of the coin, which is that my close vision has been completely shot to blazes, and while I revel in the novelty of being able to see far away for the first time in my life, anything that's within arm's length of me is nothing but a blur at this point. I travel around with a vast array of magnifying spectacles (my sister always used to joke that her Indian name was "Woman of Many Glasses") each one of which seems to only work for one particular purpose - such as reading the newspaper, using the computer, or playing games on the phone - but are absolutely not interchangeable for any other task. Between losing them and breaking them, I have the feeling that I'm keeping the eyewear industry afloat entirely by myself, and if I ever found one pair of glasses that would do everything I need it to do, the optical manufacturers would go out of business overnight. You're welcome. The playoff picture is shaping up in interesting ways, as is often the case. The perhaps overmatched Rangers clawed their way over Montreal into the second round, and then promptly lost the first two games to Ottawa right out of the chute, thanks not, before righting the ship and winning the next two on home ice. Meanwhile, the runaway favorite Capitals (with their league-leading 118 points and all) are on the short end of a 3-1 hole against the Penguins, and on the verge of being knocked out of the picture completely. Anaheim and Edmonton, like the Rangers, are all knotted up at 2 apiece, while unsung Nashville, like Pittsburgh, has a commanding lead over St. Louis, and may take them out in 5 games as well. In the NBA, Boston, Cleveland, and Golden State have already won 2 games, and only Houston and San Antonio are still tied at one game each. In other current sports, after a full month outside on the grass, it's the Yankees and Astros, well, maybe not exactly running away with it in the AL, but certainly trotting away with it at this early juncture, with the Nationals and Rockies doing the same on the NL side of things. The Mets are struggling to keep pace at 3 games under .500, but unfortunate injuries have already taken their toll, especially among their pitching staff. Of course, things can always be worse, like the opening round of the PGA Tour's Wells Fargo Championship at Eagle Point Golf Club in Wilmington, North Carolina, where 2 golfers were eaten by alligators, but they were several strokes off the lead, so nobody really took any notice. Okay, that didn't actually happen, but I still say they're just asking for trouble as long as the alligators have free rein to wander the courses at will, and I for one would not count on the gators' good manners, I dare say. On the modern technology front, alert readers may recall a few weeks ago, when I mentioned that I had inadvertently cobbled together two colloquial expressions into one sentence (and to the detriment of both, I don't mind saying) and ended up with a sodden ink-stained mess for my troubles, which was no improvement to the English language, by any means. Now thanks to our friends and friendly strangers at Facebook, I realize that I am not the only one afflicted with the mixed metaphor syndrome, as the following comments will attest: =============================== "You can take one man's trash to another man's treasure, but you can't make it drink" "Now you're up a creek and barking at the wrong tree" "You've opened this can of worms, now lie in it" "You can't spill milk on a dead horse" (Fun fact: the blending of idioms or cliches is called a malaphor) My personal favorite is "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it" (I'm rather fond of "It's not rocket surgery," and "not the sharpest egg in the attic,") but my all-time favourite is " ... until the cows freeze over." ================================= Well, if that's not the bee's knees in the cat's pajamas, then I guess I just don't know what is, by golly. Anyway, we've certainly gone all the way around Robin Hood's barn since we started, put all of our eggs in one basket, and that basket seems to be well on its way to the nether regions even as we speak, so we'd all better look before we leap, or Devil take the hind-most. After all, this isn't rocket surgery. Elle