Judy Garland is the female Frank Sinatra

Last night I caught the tail end of an incredible documentary on Judy Garland on PBS. For whatever reason, this coincided with me recently finishing reading the wonderful "Wicked: The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of The West." I don't know if the two are related, but I'm grateful for allowing myself the time to sink into both. Both were amazing engaging, and both the documentary and book again made me reconsider making judgments about anything until I have all the facts. This was especially true of "Wicked," both in the sense of judging the witch herself based on "The Wizard of Oz," and in the sense of the book, which I thought I had figured out after the first opening sequence. No, I didn't. I should have known better. Same with Garland. I had her pegged for something and someone she wasn't. Again, I should have known better. Not giving her talent the consideration and respect it deserves is shameful. But better late than never. I plan to enjoy it much more in the years to come.

Bob Dylan's "Modern Times": Simply masterful. I can't say anymore, other than sixth row center Oct. 25, baby!!! Sixth row center.

My dog's leg hurts.

My main man Slim is down and out these days with a bum wheel. Not sure how it happened, but the poor chap pulled a doggy groin, and now he has a limp in his gimp. Too bad, too, because the fella likes to get up and go and go and go and go. So it's six weeks of rest and relaxation, according to the sage vet. He doesn't know our boy, Slim, very well, though. Trying to contain big boy for six weeks might as well be six years. Impossible. But pain is pain, so I suppose Slim will get the idea soner than later. So here's to your recovery Slimmidy Dim.

Football, leaves, and ... it's still summer

Yesterday, still being Aug. 11, I saw Halloween candy displayed at Walgreens. The NFL preseason kicks off this weekend, and actually, there were games played last weekend, as well. Four nights ago while swimming with my daughter, we could hear the local high school's marching band practicing. And if you haven't noticed, school supplies were being put on the shelves before the smoke from the Fourth of July had vanished.

What' the obsession with getting rid of summer so quickly? What's the obsession in general for people to move from the current minute to the next one so quickly? Motion. Constant. True enough, but motion also represents meaning, and if you're always anticipating the next motion, you can't possibly be picking up on the meaning of the last one. Slow the hell down people.

Rain.

Like most of the country, where I live is parched. Beyond parched. I don't water my grass (although I have watered my plants and vegetables all summer), and it's sad how decayed it is. Dry. Crackling. Ugly. Our dogs have no mercy on it, either. The paths they create. The patches they destroy one at a time. It's ugly. Last night it rained on those bare patches. I'm thankful. My garden needed the life, and a water ban has been put into place for the city (although some of my neighbors don't seem to care). It's not nearly enough to make a dent, but watching the lightening late into last night was a relief on the soul.