Here’s something we’re not used to around here: yesterday, according to Accuweather, Syracuse was the hottest spot in NY State, coming in at 91° And today is supposed to be both hotter, and more humid. I’ll try and remember this come January when I’m sitting out on the tractor plowing snow and kicking myself in the ass for not building a cab for it over the summer. For now, I’ll just enjoy the fact that the tractor is getting a well-deserved rest, as I think we’ve had about a tenth of an inch of rain in the past month or so, and the grass is not only not growing, but it’s getting downright crunchy. This seems to bum some people out, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. The less I have to cut it, the better (though it’s decidedly much more fun than using your standard walk-behind mower).

The deer flies seem to have reached their peak (at least I hope this is the peak, ‘cuz if they get any worse, I’m gonna have to wrap the dogs – and my head – in duct tape). There are bugs that are just pests, and then there are bugs that I just plain detest (which kinda rhymes. Cool). Deer flies are on the “detest” list (along with black flies; mosquitoes do not even come close), and I not only want to see them all dead – I want them to suffer. I know, that’s not very nice, but, hey, it’s just how it is.

Having grown up with old people, the poor dogs are not used to having noisy little high-pitched stomping munchkins around the house (they seem to be rather unsure as to just what the hell they are, other than some sort of demonic, little two-legged critters). Fritz, especially, is terrified of them, and has been hiding behind me at the sound of their approach. Poor fella.

Oh well, I wonder if Maron’s politically incorrect statements from Realtime the other night will make it to Fux News today. Funny how you can call for the murder of a “baby killer” doctor, put crosshairs on the faces of congresscritters that need to be “eliminated,” and suggest that if people would only hurry up and die, there’d be no Federal Budget deficit. but if you say something about a repressed gay man taking out his pent-up agression and self-loathing by angrily f*cking is wife, Michelle Bachmann, well, by golly, you’re goddamned (literally) depraved.

I forgot to mention this yesterday, but it was 30 years ago that Harry Chapin died on the Long Island Expressway in a rather spectacular, fiery crash at the far-too-young age of 38 (on his way, typically, to give a free concert). I hope it’s not insensitive of me to suggest that, if Harry had to die in a car accident, it shouldn’t have happened on the LIE, but on Route 81 on the hill that leads to Scranton, Pennsylvania. So many great songs in such a short lifetime. Makes me wonder why this God fella would do shit like that (you’d think maybe if He was gonna kill Harry, maybe he coulda spread a little of that talent around to, say, me.