Silly me — I thought the hobo spider and the brown recluse were the same spider, just different names used in different geographical locations. It turns out that I am wrong. To the lay-person (i.e. me) they look the same. There is a difference, however, in the male sexual organs. To which one would have to ask: How often do we really take the time to examine spider schlongs? And how do you do so?- lift their kilts? Show a snippet of “Spiders Gone Wild” and look for the resulting woolly willies? Personally, I don’t care. I would rather not be bitten by either; my last bite and resulting rot were bad enough. Almost enough to make me less charitable about rescuing the eight-legged buggers from the shower.

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Happy “Get Drunk And Blow Stuff Up” day! (GDABSUD, if you want something short and easy to pronounce) Well, I’ve got to go play with the grill (charcoal, not gas) and make sure none of the rugrats in the pool drowns. Or if they do that it’s not the neighbor-girl, ’cause that would really screw up our homeowner’s insurance.

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What a beautiful day: Sunny, just over 103f and a good shade tree. The perfect conditions to recover from breakfast. Ugh. Somehow I blew my morning mocha and ended up with rotgut cocoa. It made for a nauseous drive, but I am much better now, thanks. If you want to send cash with your “get well soon” cards, I can give you my address. No COD’s, please.

It is naked weather, the kind of weather that makes me regret my lack of gym-time for the past ten weeks. Lack of gym-time and an increase of gorge-time. Makes for a tight Speedo. Hah! I hope that image haunts you for months.

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Well now. Looking through my notebook from last week, it seems I skipped several pages of regurgitation. We can’t have that, can we? Sure, it’s outdated now by almost a week, but who cares? It was put to paper, so there must be some value in it regardless of the content. If not, how does Ann Coulter get published?
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a sunny day
a soothing voice
a cooling drink
and you

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Happy 4th of July, everyone. And with that, let us turn this back to my favorite subject: Me. Here’s the post I meant to put up last Wednesday after arriving in McLean, Virginia.

I love to write, to watch my ideas form on the page. You (or someone else if not you, you inconsiderate worm!) would think that I would like using a text editor, but I do not. Given the choice of a blank page or a blank screen, I choose the blank page every time. For me, writing is a physical process, with each scribbled word pouring out of me via the pen. To type is to reduce words to random pokes. I do not form letters when typing, I just jab buttons. In short order, my thought is lost, abandoned while I consider form and structure over content, or think of the other things I could be doing with my computer (so much porn, so little time?). With a good pen and a pad of paper, all I can do is write. Or doodle. And for those of you who think my writing is awful, you should see my doodles and be glad I have stuck with writing.
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This work is entitled “Sitting on my ass at a swim meet, trying not to fall asleep between events or throttle the children who are fighting over everything and nothing. Holy crap, there must be something to focus on to keep me from grabbing them both by the ear and screaming like a madman!” I suppose its alternate title could be “A Maple Tree”.

a maple tree
trunk and branches spread
whorled and grooved
in brown and grey
and green
a spider’s nest
and splotches of moss
scabrous lichens
spread beneath the canopy

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It’s 93f out there and not yet noon. What’s a guy to do but spew another poem? Swim, I supposed. Or go back to reading my book (“Dante Club”, by Matthew Pearl). But first, spewing.

Out, damned heat
let out the fire and the cold in
I swear that I’m melting
a puddle of meat
and itchy skin

I’ve turned on the fans
and opened the blinds
I’m praying for cool
but I fear it’s for naught
because like inside
outside it’s hot.

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