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