I’ll take a note from my friend George Baker and talk about the weather. It’s a short conversation. Hot. Dry. Day after day. No rain in memory. No rain in sight. Oh, actually a whopping 30% chance Sunday. That’s it. The grass outside my window on the farm looks like Arizona. We are watering the garden, the trees, the horses.
Tough on the horses.
Luckily, at times, I have an office job. Time for a full-court press on selling ads for The Special. Saratoga is looming. Sixteen days before our first deadline. Strap on the crampons, there’s a mountain to climb.
