I’ve had a huge burst of creativity today, inspiration out my ears and I just realized why — it’s my font!  Not this one here, but the one in Word.  For some reason when I opened New Document today (I’m rewriting a chapter, I wanted a clean place to work) the font was Calibri 11.  Do you know it?  I assumed I was writing Times New Roman, I thought TNR was the default, but no, it’s not, or at least it wasn’t today.  I was working and working and writing and reading it back and it looked so pretty, I liked all the words. It’s the Calibri!

My working manuscript, however, is in Garamond, I’ve always considered Garamond my lucky font.  In fact what I do when I’m writing is I save Garamond for when I need it.  I start in Times New Roman and save Garamond for when I’m stuck; it’s my Mariano Rivera, it’s my relief font.  So a couple of months ago I made the whole Good Wife Garamond but what luck – now this, now Calibri. 

You’ve no idea what it means. 

I wrote Blanche Dubois because I just referenced her in a scene and am thinking of her today and it’s always fun, isn’t it, to say her name.  Say it.  “Blanche Doo-bwah.”  Be dramatic about it, in honor of her. 

That’s all I have.  Really.

My sound doesn’t work.  I have to reload something which means finding the disks and we all know I don’t find things so maybe you’ll be a dear and watch this for me and tell me it’s fun.

I’m having summer terrors today.  Summer terrors are when you and the father of your children have chosen to juggle things in such a way that daycare centers and nannies aren’t involved, and at the precise moment that the three long terrifying months of nothing reach down your throat, the absurdness of the whole idea strikes you like a rubber mallet hard and between the eyes.  That’s what summer terrors are.  I’m having one, right now. 

That was an awful and long sentence and it’s not quite 9:00am. 

[Rest in peace, Gary.  Sidewalk Blocker.  I wish I had something much more elegant to say.  I wish I'd said it to you.] 

So the same year I was frolicking nonchalantly about my 16-year-old summer, Jody Gilley, another 16-year-old in another small Oregon town, was having a different time.  She’s one of the subjects of Kathryn Harrison’s new book, “While They Slept.”  (I’m just now getting around to Sunday’s book review.  I’m very busy.)

I promise today not to write about machines or ants, or even spiders.  Though it’s not easy with the machines roaring a football field away and things crawling up my arm.  Still, I promise.

Instead I’ll write about strawberries – I think they’re ripe here, or almost, and we should all pick them and make this pie.  Hmm.  That’s all I have on strawberries.  Here’s something to read about music.  

Jeez.  Take away machines and bugs and I’m afraid I’ve got nothing.  Read about summer, then (see link below).  And call me in the morning.    

[Back Fence PDX]

M-squared (who wants to be called M-III but won’t get to be because I don’t change a name once I’ve set it.  Unless it’s Herb.  Unless you’d rather be called Herb, M-squared, I like Herb) referred to a post yesterday about A. cooking, or someone cooking, or me cooking A. I can’t remember for sure.  The point is I can’t find it.  I thought he said it was here but it’s not.  In looking, though, I’ve discovered something you’ve probably known for years:  I can’t stop talking about ants!  It’s a disease.  It really is!  YOU try to balance entomophobia with your writing material and see how you do.  See if you keep the ants out.

By the way, I want you to donate a dollar toward my disease next time you’re at Safeway.  They’ll try to steer you toward lupus or cancer, but please tell them you want your money in Entomophobia.  Insist on it.  Threaten to shop at Albertson’s.  Tell them you are tired of reading about ants. 

This has nothing at all to do with ants but I think you’ll like it.  Particularly you, M., though I’m sure you’ve already seen it.  Where is this, where’s Garrison?  The place itself, Guinans, sounds like a place Andy and I stopped at on the way to a client, some weird client we had upstate.  It was an hour train and we got off at one point and bought tall cans of beer like high school kids.  It wasn’t the usual train, like to Connecticut or wherever else all the trains go — there were leafy trees along the way and little else.  And I think, for the record, we bought the beers on the way back, after we had finished acting professional. 

It reminds me of summer, which at 48 degrees here in Mac looks like we won’t get, but still I reached back 24 years and wrote this. 

Ta-ta.

Scruffy and I are unsettled by the machines.  They make Scruffy bark, they make me mad, they can see over the fence.  My fence!  They can watch me back and forth, between big house and small, they can see what I’m snacking on, that my hair is uncombed, that I’m not wearing shirts.  It’s discomfiting!  I don’t like it one bit. 

There’s that and still the ants.  You’re bored with the ants, I know, have I mentioned the ants?  Ellen, it’s true, has issues with ants, but have I told you about any of mine?  The ants have invaded the second floor, they’ve taken it over, I had to retreat.  I don’t know how long I can hold them off, I fear for the house.  I bet the machines in back can see the ants, why aren’t they helping me, why aren’t they calling for backup?  There are a lot of freaking ants!

After Field Day (it starts in 30 minutes) I’ll deal with the ants, I’ll call a guy. 

Saturday there was a party, I have pictures.  I probably won’t show them to you because they are all good Catholic parents, I’m too busy for scandal.  It’s rumored that one punched someone else in the jaw, another stripped off his clothes, three more lost at Blackjack and can’t make their vig. 

Ha ha.  Scruffy was the monster.  He chewed up food and peed on rugs and there was garbage, because of him, strewn all about. 

People left several things.  Some left coats, some left furniture, there was also car keys a car and a purse.  They can all be reclaimed in the lobby for a small-to-medium fee.

I have work to do now.  Send me peaches. 

A. is totally off the hook for my birthday (you’re off the hook, A.!) because my friend L. took me to breakfast, told funny stories and we planned the world.  I’ve had a perfect birthday and it’s not even 10 o’clock.  If L. were a 6′ 2″ boy and Italian I’d marry her all over again. 

My friend K. told me funny stories, too.  That’s all I want for my birthday, actually, funny stories and to plan the world.  Send your fun and plans here or else send me twenty bucks. 

I said two things, didn’t I, that’s really just one.  The second thing is pea tops.  Yesterday at the market I bought pea tops — the leafy curly flowery tops of peas – and I ate them.  I ate a lot of them, actually, because they were good.  If pea tops were a 6’2″ Italian boy, I’d marry them.  All over again. 

It’s raining and I’ll be here all week.  (Try the veal.) 

… and his comment.  Before I go one way or another I’ll, of course, want to see the present. 

Unrelated, the landscapers are here and I think they saw me naked.  I’m accustomed to watching animal porn and undressing all day without bother.  Don’t knock my routine, I’m on a streak.  (Pun intended.)

Oh, yeah, and the ants are back upstairs.  They’ve multiplied and seem mad.  Some of us will need to sleep elsewhere this eve.

Buhner’s my monkey, well Ellen’s monkey.  Well, actually, Ellen’s paraplegic boyfriend Reed’s capuchin monkey, but anyway, monkeys.  Stay with me.

S. was here last night and grabbed my computer and the search term in my Google box was “horniest animals”. 

Okay.  This is why writers don’t like you to touch their stuff — there’s way too much to explain.  So now her image of me sitting on my couch in pajamas staring at my computer all day has been replaced by one of me in my pajamas watching animal porn.  Nice.

For the record, I was trying to find an analogy.  That’s what I do!  Just like you might deliver the mail or change someone’s oil or fill a cavity; whatever it is all of you do, I find analogies, and metaphors and write cute turns of phrase!   

Anyway.  I needed an animal who has lots of sex.  I don’t remember the passage now; well yes I do, kind of.  You’ll have to buy the book for it, I’m not printing it here, but it’s something about Howard’s hopes of what might ignite between Ellen and her Brazilian bikini waxer Angelica.  I needed an image.  Bunnies are too cute and wholesome, I needed something raw. 

Tamer search phrases, like “animals who mate voraciously” yield practically nothing.  “Horniest animals,” however, gets you Bonobo monkey, which was exactly, exactly what I wanted.  The Bonobo monkey.  (Scroll to “Sexual social behavior.”)

I’m just trying to make a living, people, just trying to pay the bills.  Don’t touch the computer if you can’t handle the search terms.

(P.S.  I did not watch videos of the Bonobo doing it’s thing, I’m far too professional.  But if you find some, send them here.) 

I’m in a sentimental mood.  The rain, which has been mean and relentless this year, has something to do with that.  Anyway, this from my friend K., is well-written (of course) and touching.  Just saying. 

Well, that’s all really.  Click here for your refund.