Horton's last years were kinda sad. One day he bellowed for attention, everyone gathered, and he insisted he heard a What.They humored him, for he was, after all, a great hero. But the next week he was adamant that he heard a Where. Before he could get to the inevitable When and Why, some younger elephants led him to the Elephant's Graveyard. Elephants may not forget, but they still lose their shit like everyone else.

There's a fine line between ironic kitsch and just plain bad taste, and as you stand in the Walgreen's garden aisle trying to decide between the three-foot tall metal grasshopper waving the Confederate flag and the huge neon-green ceramic bullfrog for that spot under the tree on which you just installed one of those smiley faces, and finally you say "what the hell, why not both," you may have just crossed it.

Tip for grads: You begin with principles, ethics, a list of things you vow to never stoop to in your career. And that’s nice. But you’ll find your standards are more flexible than you can imagine once you have a mortgage and mouths to feed. Relax, it’s not that bad. It’s not like anyone’s going to demand you perform human sacrifice – though even on that point, your decision might hinge on your kids’ orthodontic needs.

It’s not my place to judge, but anyone in America who got up early to watch the royal wedding should know that in the historic Granary Burial Ground in Boston, an persistent underground humming was heard this morning as a certain someone was spinning in his grave and wondering whether it was all worth it. Maybe you've heard of him. His name is JOHN FREAKING HANCOCK! And he’s very, very disappointed in all of you.

Dammit, I hate it when this happens. I watch too much news from "across the pond" in the morning, and I'm stuck speaking with a British accent the rest of the day, Govn'r.

I'm paying the price for my all-night NFL Draft-Royal Wedding combo party. Bloated on scones, Buffalo wings, Yorkshire pudding, brats, tea and beer. Barely conscious, I’m pretty sure I just saw Kate marrying Prince Amukamara, and was that Mel Kiper Jr. projecting it as "can't miss" marriage? (Of course, he said the same of Andrew and Fergie.) Oh Lord, gotta get to the bathroom; here come the haggis nachos.

Tough love ain't cuttin' it. Gonna try some gentle hate.

"Never settle for who you are" -- closing words of wisdom from Michael Scott.

Now, just wait one damn minute here. The doctor who delivered Obama died on Aug. 20, 2003. At just 81, with so much of his life ahead of him. Well, that’s pretty convenient now, isn’t it? I await the White House’s release of documents showing David Axelrod’s whereabouts on that date.

Listening to pre-NFL Draft coverage on ESPN radio the other day, I heard some expert analyst say, and this is a direct quote: "If you don't have a quarterback, you can't win." Indeed. We all remember the '78 Cardinals' disastrous no-QB offense, every single snap ending up on the turf. What a fiasco that was.

C’mon, people! Surely, I’m not the only one who’s noticed that David Sinclair, the “doctor” purported to have “delivered” “Barack” “Obama,” is an anagram for Card Is Invalid. How stupid do these people think we are?

Holy crap! Read Obama’s birth certificate backward. It says: “I buried Paul -- in Kenya.”

Tip for grads: Although you may technically outrank the administrative assistant, don't act like it. She knows where the bodies are buried -- indeed, probably put a few in the ground herself -- and can be your best friend or your worst enemy. In fact, networking with the administrative assistants in your office just might get you farther than doing so with anyone else. Also, they have bowls of candy on their desks.

Mike Huckabee gets a lot of political mileage out of claims he has lost more than 100 pounds; he even wrote a book about his experience called "Quit Digging Your Grave with a Knife and Fork." But I have my doubts. What if he's still a fat guy who uses a series of trusses, girdles and pulleys to fool us all? And believe you me, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Yes, you guessed it: We call ourselves girthers.

Obama could have played this smarter politically, and done a great public service to boot, by offering to release his birth certificate in exchange for The Donald’s hairdresser releasing all of her records. If Trump’s serious about running, we need to know what’s up with that godawful orange combover before we can pay proper attention to the crazy crap he says.

Oh, crud. I just took a look at the fine print -- turns out Obama was born a woman. Man, here we go now ...

I took a look at Obama's birth certificate. Oh my God, he's black! Were we aware of this?

Tip for grads: For all the studies, analyses and debates about the differences between male and female bosses, it's really this simple: One you'll encounter in the office restroom regularly, and one you won't. If you want a place to hide from the boss, you want the opposite gender, and if you see every moment of, um, face time with the boss as a chance to burnish your career, you want the same. And, by the way, if you're one of the latter, and you notice the boss has started walking to the adjacent building to relieve him/herself, it may be time to ease up a bit on the restroom networking. For starters, quit passing flash drives filled with your great ideas under the stall dividers.

Tip for grads: The first third of your career is an exciting arc of increasing knowledge, influence, power. The second third is spent settling in, perhaps contented, but occasionally asking, “is this all there is?” The final third is spent eyeing your retirement funds and clinging desperately to employment by your fingernails, fighting outsourcing, downsizing, exhaustion. My advice: Keep those nails long and sharp.

Tip for 2011 grads: Some offices go in big for social gatherings because, God knows, you don't spend enough time with these people during working hours. Coffees, lunch potlucks, after-work drinks, family picnics. You must go to at least some of these, especially as a newbie, lest you be seen as thinking yourself better than everyone. Even so, ask around carefully before you RSVP to the boss's invite to a slumber party, OK?

It is neither childish nor paranoid – but rather a perfectly sensible precautionary measure -- to check under the bed and in the closet for monsters before bedtime every night. And one day, when I’m at your funeral after you’ve been torn to shreds in your sleep, I’ll sadly shake my head and say, “I told him so.” And, truth be told, I just might allow myself a tiny smirk, too.

Tips for '11 grads: When you get hired, find out what management book the boss is reading -- and yes, she's reading one; they all are -- and read it, too, or, even better, be seen carrying it around the office. However, you're overplaying your hand if you arrange to drop it on the floor in front of her in the corridor. Also, you can expect to get roughed up by colleagues in the parking lot after work, suckup.

Ginning up some political slogans

Somewhere, political marketing firms already have begun working up slogans for the 2012 presidential campaign. Although they will be paid millions of dollars, it really isn't that hard. Some suggestions for the potential pairings:

Gingrich-Trump: An anagram for Rich Nut RPM Gig -- and, yes, they're willing to change their names.

Romney-Gingrich: Speaking of anagrams, would you believe: Grin? Cringe? Oh My.

Palin-Bachmann: Despite appearances, may contain nuts.

Pawlenty-Bachmann -- Say, whatever happened to Minnesota being a socialist paradise, anyway?

Palin-Pawlenty: Minnesota and Alaska -- ice, ice, baby.

Trump-Bachmann: C'mon, admit it, once you choke back the bile, you're a little intrigued.

Obama-Biden: This birther red herring is working nicely in keeping Tea Partiers from discovering the Veep is an undocumented Mexican.

Romney-Pawlenty -- Whitest ticket since Nixon-Agnew.

Obama-Biden: Very disappointing to many, infuriating to others, and spittle-inducing enraging to the rest. Still, not batshit crazy, so they got that goin' for 'em, which is nice.

Bachmann-Pawlenty -- Minnesota pols Humphrey, McCarthy and Mondale are rolling over in their graves. What's that you say -- Mondale isn't dead yet? Well, this oughta do it.

Santorum-Cain -- A little froth on that pizza?

Obama-Biden: Look, we started a war, too!

Bachmann-Cain: In your heart, you know they're right. No, wait, those may be chest pains. Ah, geez, get me to the hospital.

Trump-Cain: Pizza and New York real estate -- Grease 3.

Trump-Santorum: Putting the "ums" in "um, damn, that can't be right, um, can it?"

Bachmann-Palin: What the hell, the world's supposed to end in 2012 anyway

Obama-Biden: Still one war behind Bush, but give us a second term, and we'll get there.

Trump-Gingrich: Contains 300 percent more wives than the current administration.

Bachmann-Trump: Time to work on that Canadian accent, eh, hoser? And learn to love hockey, while you're at it.

It turns out that melted jelly beans don't work very well as a glaze for the Easter ham; they form an impenetrable, albeit beautiful, shell. Ham No. 2, with its peep glaze, is frankly a little scary; it's glowing oddly, its little peep eyes seem to follow me everywhere and the dog is cowering and whimpering, staring, terrified, at it. But the third ham, with its melted Cadbury Creme Egg glaze, is juuust right.

If Judas is the main villain of the season, take a moment today to also curse Richard Palmer, who deserves similar ignominy as the villain of secular Easter. Who's Richard Palmer, you ask? He's the greedy businessman who, looking to make a buck in the wake of WWII, invented the hollow chocolate bunny. Yes, that's right -- he came up with the concept of putting nothing where previously there was chocolate. Bastard.

I do believe in letting sleeping dogs lie, but an unconscious cat, especially if he's in the exact same spot he was in when I last saw him 12 hours earlier, is another matter entirely. If no one's looking, you bet I give him a little shove, maybe a quick yank on his tail. No need to alert the PETA rapid-response picket team -- I'm not cruel; I just want to see some damn movement.

Looking forward to a nice, quiet Easter weekend -- which in our household is defined as one in which no one ends up in the ER with a peep lodged in their throat, ear or nostril. And yes, if you must know, it's been me the last three years.

A few words for the graduates

Disappointed that I have yet to be offered a graduation-speaker's gig this spring, I'm offering up these random thoughts for young people preparing to head out into the world, the poor bastards. Some are inspirational, some spirit-crushing. FYI, I'm available just about every Saturday and Sunday through the end of June and require no honoraria or expenses. It's payment enough to see the faces of young people gazing up at me in hope and optimism, expressions turning to disgust and horror as I am booed off the stage and pelted with mortarboards, tomatoes and student loan documents wrapped around bricks.

Good luck, graduates.

-- Yes, today is the first day of the rest of your life. So is tomorrow, next Tuesday and even July 17, 2017. Or maybe not. There are lots of opportunities for new starts in life but, not to be morbid, no one knows when they'll run out. Hell, you may not make it to the end of this piece. So, go ahead and make that new start today ... OK, make it tomorrow then. But no later. Maybe today you could at least get started by getting your lazy ass off the couch, though.

-- You can't pull yourself up by your bootstraps if you're wearing flip-flops. OK, I see from your blank expressions that you STILL don't grasp the concept of metaphors. Let me put it more directly: Don't wear flip-flops to work, idiot, unless you're a shower room attendant, of course -- which you'd better not be, considering that theatre degree you just received.

-- You'll get little sympathy in life blaming your parents for who you are today. We screwed up, we get it, get over it. Our parents screwed up, too. As will you, if you reproduce. You'll find this hard to believe, but you'll make some of the exact same mistakes. Nobody gets it right, everyone has to overcome a certain amount of dysfunction. Tough shit, gang. It's the circle of life.

-- There's nothing sadder than standing around waiting for your ship to come in, only to realize later you were supposed to catch the bus, or a rickshaw, or maybe even a Segueway. The point being: Don't wait around for something to happen. Get moving -- one way or another.

-- Let's be clear: Life WILL give you lemons. Also, kumquats, rotten tomatoes, rancid meat, overripe bananas, wormy apples and some moldy, unrecognizable stuff from the back of the cosmic fridge. So, some days it's not lemonade you have to make. It's a big, ol' Shit Smoothie. Stick a straw in and suck hard. Don't worry -- that burning feeling in your esophagus fades after the first couple of sips.

-- Strive to be unprejudiced, open-minded and accepting of all, no matter their race, religion, or sexual orientation; which direction they prefer toilet paper to unroll; or whether they dig Keith Olbermann or Glenn Beck. If you fall short – and you will – at least know your own prejudices, for only with such self-awareness can you avoid being a complete ass to your fellow human beings.

-- Your mother worries about you. Would it kill you to call her once in a while?

-- The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and you may imagine your life from here as a series of such. But no. Life is broken pavement and jagged potholes, dead ends in questionable neighborhoods, hairpin turns on narrow mountain roads, washed-out bridges, unexpected detours. On the other hand, the scenery is terrific, sometimes breathtaking. Enjoy. But buckle up.

-- Question authority -- but not mine, you insolent punk.

-- With apologies to Kipling, if you can keep your head when all your co-workers
around you are losing theirs, you're probably the only one who hasn't seen the memo yet.

-- Never give up on your dreams no matter how far-fetched, for one day, when you least expect it, they might come true. For instance, I still would abandon my current life in a heartbeat – sorry, family -- to be a roadie for Bruce Springsteen. Hell, who am I kidding? There are days I’d chuck it all if a stranger offered me candy to get in his car for a free ride to a fresh start on the coast.

-- Bad news, kids -- you WILL have to use math after you get out of school, after all. However, you won't use phys ed -- at least not until 30 years and pounds from now when you'll desperately take it up again.

-- May the road rise up to meet you, and may it not be because you're falling flat on your face.

-- One day you're stickin' it to The Man and, before you know it, you're the one to whom it is being stuck. "Damn, I'm The Man, The Man I am!," you cry. Or, to put it another way: You're out merrily tilting at windmills and, before long, you've been put in charge of windmill security -- which is just as well because by then your chronic back pain won't allow you to tilt so well anyway.

-- But for her warning that your eyes would get stuck like that, Mom was right in everything she told you. Dads can steer you wrong -- sometimes even deliberately, for kicks, or to build character. But moms? Never. So, once a week, say, "Mom, you were so right about (fill in the blank)." And every other week, actually call her and tell her. (BTW, just because your eyes haven't gotten stuck doesn't mean they won't, so knock it off already; it really pisses mom off.)

-- Thomas Wolfe was wrong – you CAN go home again. However, this might be a good time to mention our new baggage fees – a single overnight bag is free, but every suitcase, box or bag beyond that will cost $1,000 each.

-- How 'bout baseball at-bats as metaphor? Once, everything was nicely teed up for you, you got as many swings as you needed, and people cheered for the measliest, dribbling little contact you made, even if you then scampered toward third base. Well, now it's nasty curveballs, baffling change-ups and high, hard, inside ones that leave you diving for safety and choking on infield dirt.

-- Be kind to your elders in the workplace, for, though we are tired, cranky, slow-moving and forgetful and we bitch too much about how this place sure ain't what it used to be, we're more on top of it than we seem, and you will become us one day, and sooner than you can imagine -- unless, of course, you get pushed down a stairwell because you’re just so damn annoying and insolent.

-- You've no doubt heard that it's not what you know but who you know that determines your career success. Maybe. But if you really want to set yourself apart and get ahead, it's about who you know, what you have photos or video of them doing and with whom they are doing it.

-- Most of you haven't lived long enough, lost enough or been kicked around enough yet to be cynical and jaded. You have to earn that. So, drop the attitude. Be idealistic, starry-eyed and full of hope, dammit.

Congratulations on reducing your carbon footprint since the last Earth Day. Maybe in the next year you can work on those greasy, grimy handprints you leave on everything you touch, hmm? Soap would be a nice start.

Parents, make sure young kids go easy on the Easter treats – especially a certain one made of marshmallow, corn syrup, gelatin and something called carnauba wax. Emory University scientists – yes, scientists! -- found they were insoluble in acetone, water, diluted sulfuric acid and sodium hydroxide. But let’s put it in more relevant terms: If your kid over imbibes, you might not get a peep out of her for several days.

Celebrate Earth Day: Soil yourself.

Heading home after a particularly hard day, one considers the stress-reduction options for the evening: Work in the garden? Meh. A bike ride? No, that’s not it either. A long walk with the significant other? No. An outing to the gym for some brisk cardio? Still, no. Oh, wait a minute, there’s still three-quarters of a can of cream cheese frosting hidden in the back of the crisper in the fridge, isn’t there? Bingo!

This Earth Day, consider this from the Department of Alarming if True Statistics: American motorists waste 37 million gallons of gas, 11 million quarts of oil and 21 million pounds of tire rubber every year by creeping forward several inches at a time while waiting for a red light to turn green as if that 11-inch head start actually gets them to their destination faster. Please don’t be a Traffic Light Creep.

Looking for some creative ways to balance the family budget, I just had the family dog go through highly intensive Helper Animal training. Samson now has the distinction of being one of the world's only service shih-tzus. I can't say I'm thrilled with the results, but the next time you find yourself in a situation in which you need something humped, leave a message for me here on the blog.

Geez, this is getting ridiculous. I just heard that an air traffic controller at LaGuardia called the cops at 2 this morning to complain that low-flying airplanes were keeping him awake.

In retrospect, someone certainly should have realized it was a disaster in the making to have the contestants from "The Biggest Loser" visit the set of "Cupcake Wars." By the time the dust and frosting settled, casualties included 7,000 cupcakes and Chef Florian Bellanger, who in the melee had a bucket of pumpkin kiwi acai goat cheese ganache spill on him, whereupon a ravenous Rulon Gardner took off his head. Sure made for great TV, though.

Feeling wholly weak, celebrating Holy Week

You know, Christianity would be a great faith if it weren't for all these damn Christians.

Just kidding. Lots of ‘em are great. I'm a big fan of the humble, the middling, the mediocre Christians, the ones who know they're weak and unworthy but who are striving to improve. The ones who admit that some days they're better Christians than others, and that there are certain days they pray, "Lord, let this not be my Judgment Day, for I have been such an a-hole today and I cannot bear to face You. Tomorrow, I'll be better, Lord, I promise. Actually, to be on the safe side, give me at least a couple more days, please, if You’re really ready for me now, that is. Though I kind of hope You’re not yet, ‘cause I got tickets to ‘Rent’ this summer ... No, no, make that ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ ... heh."

I don't much care for the Christians who act like they have it all figured out, the ones who practice their faith as they do so much else in their lives -- to be noticed, to show off, to display their superiority complex for all. I don't like the ones who cherry pick passages from the Bible to rationalize their own prejudices and meanness, while somehow overlooking those that counsel love, humility and forgiveness and warn against pride and hypocrisy. Or the ones who want to rub their beliefs into the faces of others who believe differently, or not at all. The holier-than-thou crowd. Also, I don’t like the ones who park illegally at church, ‘cause, what the hell, man, it’s church; how do you think God feels about you parking that SUV in the fire lane at His house?

The Bible is quite explicit in condemning Christians of this ilk – well, maybe not the illegal parkers, though that might be covered in Leviticus somewhere. But the others, for sure. I'd cite the actual passages, but, like I said, I'm a pretty mediocre Christian, so I don't recall where they are. But I know they're there, many times. One of them has something to do with specks and planks in eyes, if memory serves. There’s another one I like about how the meek are gonna rule some day and, man, am I ready for that. I picture that moment as a Jerry Bruckheimer movie, when the meek suddenly throw their glasses and pocket protectors aside and kick some serious ass, but I suspect I’m misinterpreting the tone of that message.

I like the part of Christianity about admitting my brokenness, my emptiness, my imperfection; in fact, not just admitting them, but embracing them. I like the part about forgiving and being forgiven. I'm a big fan of love. I like the part once a month or so when there are donuts and coffee after services, and if you have some change or a bill in your pocket, there's a basket where can kick in a little, but if you don't, you still can have donuts and coffee, and nobody's gonna give you the stinkeye.

Truth be told, I often get angry at my Church. The horrible weaknesses and crimes of its servants have been documented exhaustively for years, and I have thought of bailing a time or two -- on the Church, mind you, not my faith. There is a difference. And sometimes I’m mad at the priest, or the guy in front of me who lets his kids treat the pew like playground equipment, or the choir member who blows that high note every time, or the guy ahead of me in line in the basement after Mass who takes not just the last chocolate donut, but the last TWO.

Some weeks I leave Mass and realize I’ve been angry for the last hour, or fidgety, or just not quite there. So, yeah, I’m one of those middling, struggling Christians -- petty and small, impatient and selfish, caught up in the trivial, the insignificant, and so on. It is this week -- Holy Week -- that I try to reflect and resolve to do better.

Above all, I worry that am too cynical, jaded and sarcastic. Indeed, I fear that when my Judgment Day comes and I face God, He will look me up and down and ask, sadly, “Why such a smartass, my son?”

To which I shall respond: “But my Lord, at least I never parked in Your fire lane.”

That which does not kill us only makes us stronger? Perhaps. On the other hand, it may leave us broken, bloody and maimed, unable to defend ourselves against being nibbled to death by tiny but nasty and persistent scavengers of all types. Oh, I'm sorry, you were looking for "Chicken Soup for the Soul?" Man, did you take a wrong turn. Well, go back and stop reading after "Perhaps," I guess. That's the best I can do.

Surely one of the basic rules that defines humankind is: He/she who makes a fast-food run is entitled on the drive home to any french fries that are loose in the sack. And if a particularly sharp turn results in excessive spillage, that’s hardly the driver’s fault. That’s just physics. And if the person who ends up with no fries has a problem with that, he/she can make the run next time. Doesn’t everyone get that?

As we start another week, remember those old Lamaze breathing techniques can be quite effective in reducing daily stress: Slow, deep breaths, followed by some fast puffs, then repeat. And again and again. See, it's starting to work, isn't it? Wait! No, no, no, no! Oooh ... You pushed, didn't you? Oops.

So, I suckered my gullible cat into a Ponzi scheme. I suppose People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals is gonna be on me about this, huh?

When you can't activate one of those automated public-restroom faucets, no matter how you twist, turn, jump, dance or try to sneak up on the sink from different angles, remain calm. The fact that the faucet doesn't seem to acknowledge you is no need to turn this into an existential crisis -- though, to be on the safe side, you probably should avoid looking up to check your reflection in the mirror.

Taking style cues from rock stars, I’d love to be able to wear a hat like Bob Dylan, hang a cigarette from my lower lip like Keith Richards, drape myself in scarves like Jagger, sport mutton chops like Neil Young's and a 'fro like Sly Stone's, effect a sneer like Elvis's and, finally, have an ass like Bruce Springsteen’s. Hey, the man has a helluva caboose. I’m comfortable enough in my manhood to acknowledge that.

I still believe in the science-fiction predictions of yesteryear: One day in the future we’ll travel in hovercrafts, aerocars and jetpacks. Robots will perform our most menial tasks. We’ll vacation on Mars. And, most important, at long last, every freezer across the land will be filled with Dippin’ Dots.

I wonder if Dan Savage could do to other politicians what he did to poor Rick Santorum? (If you don't know, do NOT Google it; trust me.) Like: "Uh-oh, bad fishsticks. Kids are gingriching all over the cafeteria." Or: "Eew, someone sneezed on my pizza; there's a blob of cain on it." Or: "I need to take off my prosthetic leg so the doc can drain the trump from my stump.” (You Googled it, didn't you? Well, I warned you.)

KFC advertises its 11 herbs and spices, and Dr. Pepper touts its 23 flavors. However, if you consume them together, you’re only going to get 32 flavors. That’s because they share two: celery salt and, of course, soylent green.

The father of psychoanalysis had a bit of a crossdressing fetish, you know. Yes, his wife was stunned to come home one evening and catch him in a Freudian slip. (Go ahead, groan; at least I resisted the temptation to have her scream at him, "Id is an outrage. I'm leaving you for someone else. I want to feel Jung again." And then I was gonna have her light up a huge cigar and catch a train through a long tunnel.)

I am dangling participles, misplacing modifiers, alliterating alacritously, splitting infinitives, abusing apostrophes, laying on exclamation points three at a time, mixing metaphors, stretching similes, effecting when I mean to affect, putting e's before i's except after c's and, what the hell, k’s, and starting sentences with conjunctions and ending them with prepositions. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

Never mind a gun and badge. You want to see a guy on a real power trip, put him in a fluorescent vest, hand him a lighted wand – the bigger the better, obviously, for this is a guy, after all – stand him in the middle of a parking lot and let him wave his wand at motorists and tell them where to go.

Man, this is really not my day. My spiritual adviser just told me to go to hell.

This time of the year, when I leave for work, I'm dressed for quitting time. In this part of the world, that can be a 40-degree swing, but I'm willing to trade some early-morning shivering for that glorious feeling of walking out of the building in shirtsleeves at the end of the day. That's just how I roll.

For some reason, I've been thinking lately of the words of that great cynic H.L. Mencken: "Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want and deserve to get it good and hard." In other words, we DID elect these people, and we re-elect them again and again.

A rose by any other name -- say, #@$%&!

Well, sonofabitch, the rambler rose survived another winter.

Yes, it's spring, when an already tired, burned-out gardener's fancy turns to thoughts of a townhouse with just a tiny patch of lawn and garden space, as he or she contemplates the work ahead. Or maybe just a patch of pavement, sufficient for a grill and a couple of chairs and, if one really needs some color, a planter or two with some indestructible geraniums in them. What the hell, make 'em plastic.

Back to the rambler rose, which I planted not long after we moved into this house in 1999. It was advertised as only marginally hardy in our area, and it arrived in the mail as a sickly little stick. I was unfazed, as I'm one of those gardeners who laughs in the face of gardening zones. More than once, I've outsmarted the zone makers, coaxing plants advertised as hardy in zone 6, even 7, to success in my zone 5 garden, although granted, that large banana grove didn't work out too well.

But gardeners are eternal optimists, despite all evidence to the contrary. So, undeterred, I planted this little stick at the base of a mature birch tree next to a walkway that goes from front to back yard. I figured it likely wouldn't survive but, if it did, I had visions of it winding its way into the highest limbs and bursting forth with an explosion of pink color and spectacular fragrance for a couple of weeks every summer. I would linger under it, and luxuriate in it as I sipped a mint julep. I mean, that's what the photo and description in the catalog said would happen.

This was before I learned that garden-catalog writers are incorrigible manure spreaders -- wildly overstating in some cases, in other cases using cagey euphemisms to disguise a plant's true nature. Such as describing, say, gooseneck loosestrife as a "vigorous grower." Indeed. "Vigorous" is one of the garden-catalog writer's favorite adjectives. Let's put it this way: If garden-catalog writers wrote a history textbook, they'd describe Hitler's advance into Poland as "vigorous." Also, they’d describe Bill Clinton's amorous adventures as "self-sowing readily" and a tsunami as "spreading rapidly." At the other end of the spectrum is the phrase "tender perennial," which denotes a plant that will require daily, gentle massages of its precious stems, recitation of love poems into its stamens and the construction of a large heated silo to get it through even the mildest winter.

Anyway, good news and bad news about the rambler rose. It has thrived -- its branches reaching high into the tree just as I imagined. But it has bloomed just once, for about one week. Meantime, those branches, though I carefully train and tie them into place, manage to break free and their thorns grab at me when I walk under it or climb the ladder to clean out the gutters. It's not called a rambler for nothing, you see, though I have come up with a few other names for it when one of its thorns digs into my cheek. I swear the thing sees me coming sometimes.

By my calculations, that's one week of glory and 623 weeks or so of worthlessness.

So, I've been secretly hoped for the rambling rose's death the last few years. I may or may not have "accidentally" run it into the base of the rose with the mower a few times. And it's possible that once some drift from Roundup spray might have settled on the rose. It may even be possible that an entire bottle of Roundup got kicked over at the base of the rose.

And yet the rose gets stronger, its branches stouter, its thorns thornier. But no flowers. It may even be feeding off of my frustration, as if my curses are fertilizer. So every year I contemplate just ripping it out. It certainly wouldn't be the first plant I've removed because it displeased me. I have what gardening experts describe as a "mature landscape," which is defined as one in which the gardener spends as much time tearing out his or her mistakes as he or she does planting.

But digging out a rose of this size will be no easy undertaking. Also, I'm a little afraid of it. What if I try to dig it out and fail? Then, I've got a pissed-off rambler rose to contend with. Finally, I have a certain grudging admiration for its ability to survive and bounce back despite its ugliness and pretty thorough uselessness. Not unlike the feeling I have toward Newt Gingrich. Anyway, every year I talk myself into giving it one more year to prove itself, even as our relationship has evolved from love-hate to hate-hate.

In any case, as noted earlier, we've begun to contemplate a smaller home and yard. So, at this point, I suppose I'll leave the rose for the house's next owners to face. They might tear it out the moment the deal closes, or perhaps they'll have the knack for coaxing it into annual bloom. A couple of years from now, maybe I'll sneak into the backyard and find the owners lying in a hammock under the bounteous, fragrant blooms sipping a mint julep. I'll slip up and overturn the hammock and run like hell.

As for our next home, like I said, I believe I'm ready for just a tiny patch of garden space, although, now that I think about it, I do believe I could make a go of a crop of mangoes, never mind what the garden catalogs say.