Of green grass and purple Van Gogh trees

I've spent the afternoon at a friend's house. A friend with grass. A friend with green grass. My lawn, this time last year, was as green, though not cut as close. I like longer leaf blades, personally; I find that it helps the grass retain the water. I should cut a smidgen shorter to inhibit fungus, perhaps, since my grass is now brown as the light brown parts of three-part desert BDUs (which I've not seen in person, only on TV and, as my TV settings are fried, the BDUs may well be pink and green).

Anyway. Back to the grass. It's green. And soft. And I've been glaring at it like some sort of temporarily thwarted stalker. "You are what I want and, until I have you, my life will not be complete. Come to me, oh sweet St. Augustine, and be mine like I know you really want to be."

Ahem.

The decision to spring for a sprinkler system came from two sources: one is my cynically idealistic friend in Boston who's still pissed at me for watering at all, and the other is the fact that the only green lawns I see use sprinkler systems. Even coverage + less runoff = greener lawn + less-pissed-idealist. I hope.

As for the purple Van Gogh tree, it reminds me of "What Dreams May Come" and Robin Williams sliding down paint hills into paint ponds.