not crushingly trite

The dog is sleeping… i am not.  This is normal.  We went strolling in the gloaming, to the accompaniment of a distant rumble, which because I could not identify it for certain, caused some unease.  I’ve been thinking of Cormac MacCarthy’s ‘The Road’, mostly because I read only reviews (occasionally a bad idea) which described his version of the end of the world: straggling populations seeking safety toward the southern ocean, set upon by cannibalistic savages, with only a glimmer of hope at the end.  The sound I heard made me wonder if it would be the sound of disaster arriving from the air.  Why do I think these things?  Boredom?  Why does Cormac MacCarthy (sp?) write these things?  The dog doesn’t care.  He’s just thinking he might see a rabbit.  Now, that’s excitement.

As for Big Brown, I had hoped he would run off with the Belmont, but I had a bad feeling while watching the run-up.  Love Jerry Bailey, love Randy Moss, hate Joe Tessitore, who tries to do Jack Whitaker and fails abysmally.  Just hit the mute button while he bloviates; it’s easy to tell when he’s done.  One of my favorites was Heywood Hale Broun who had a way with a phrase, knew horse racing and administered perspective with taste and delicacy.  It’s embarassing to hear this commentor go at it while making it clear he’s regurgitating facts the researchers have stuffed into him.

Am also really enjoying the NYT’s ‘The Rail’, which helped discover The Thoroughbred Blogger’s Alliance.   No longer will there be a drought over the winter and and then again through the summer into late fall.

It’s amazing what a cat lying on the keyboard will do for you.

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