"Five-hundred gallons of dye bought with nearly $30,000 in taxpayers' money has turned the 267-acre Lake Delton to a tranquil, tourist-attracting aqua-blue..."

"'I think the proof is in the pudding if you look at the lake. You had seen it as pea soup and green, and if you look at it today, it's beautiful...'"

"Michelle Obama remained true to her patriotic fashion theme today in a dazzling white top and skirt for this evening's events in London."

So begins the Daily Mail:

The U.S. First Lady, who has stuck to a palette of red, white and blue since she arrived in the city this morning, opted for an ensemble from the resort 2013 collection of American label J Mendel for an early evening reception at Buckingham Palace.

Oh? But what's this, further down:

Mrs Obama performed a further outfit change right before the Opening Ceremony began. She was seen viewing the dazzling spectacle (above) wearing a lime green blazer over the top of a simple white blouse.

Lime green! Lime green, you say? Unpatriotic!

Speaking of fashion colors and the opening ceremony... why was the Queen of England wearing black gloves? (Photo at the link.) She had this brocaded pink/peach-colored dress and a matching feathery hat, but black gloves. In summer! She also looked incredibly grouchy. I found it hard to enjoy the show, myself, because I was constantly distracted by thoughts about how the Queen must feel about it. All those people, all those flashing lights, and loud music, including Queen blasting "just gotta get out... just gotta get out..." And then those black gloves. It's as if she thought the place was going to be grimy — too dirty for her — and the gloves were a precaution against the attachment of any commonness.

At the Showerhead Café...

... rain your clear thoughts upon us.

At the Green Water Café...

... you can reflect on anything you like.

(Photo taken August 4, 2011 in the White River National Forest, in Colorado.)

"I want now this vintage bag!!!"

A comment over at The Sartorialist got me thinking about the oldest, most impossible to throw out thing in my closet. My closet is big enough that I can always fit more things in, but I'm trying to discipline myself into at least thinking about editing my collection of presumably wearable items by resisting buying more hangers.

As I visualize this task, the first thing I picture are the oldest items, the things that have survived many editings over the the years. I have a chartreuse dress made of scarf silk that I haven't worn in 20 years. Any time I look at it, I feel I am on the verge of wearing it. And now, it's clearly vintage.

Do you have things like that? When you contemplate off-loading them, does a voice in your head say "vintage"? What is it about that nasty old red bag in the Sartorialist photograph that made a commenter covet it and think "vintage"? If you've looked at the photograph you will know the answer and you will have laughed at the question.

At the Premature Patrick's Café...

... join us or get the hell out of here.

At the Green Glass Café...

... we revel in distortions.

At the Green TV Café...

... reflect on how monochrome you are.

On my back in the front yard, I look up and see the robins have built a nest...

... in the oak tree:



I wouldn't have been lying there to notice that if you hadn't made the lawn so plush and lagged behind when it was 6 p.m. and finally cool enough to leave the homestead. Then we set out. Into the woods:



Ah! The wild asparagus!

At the Pulpit Café...

... sermonize and harmonize.

Man in green sneakers reads Sartre. Dog arrives.

The Sartre book was "Nausea"  — great title for reading in a café. And the combination of Sartre and a café got us talking about Sartre's waiter (in "Being and Nothingness"):

Let us consider this waiter in the café. His movement is quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He comes toward the patrons with a step a little too quick. He bends forward a little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too solicitous for the order of the customer. Finally there he returns, trying to imitate in his walk the inflexible stiffness of some kind of automaton while carrying his tray with the recklessness of a tight-rope-walker by putting it in a perpetually unstable, perpetually broken equilibrium which he perpetually re-establishes by a light movement of the arm and hand. All his behavior seems to us a game. He applies himself to chaining his movements as if they were mechanisms, the one regulating the other; his gestures and even his voice seem to be mechanisms; he gives himself the quickness and pitiless rapidity of things. He is playing, he is amusing himself. But what is he playing? We need not watch long before we can explain it: he is playing at being a waiter in a café....

The name of the restaurant was — aptly! — The Daily Grind.