There ain't no cure for the summertime blues.

Summertime Blues is a freakishly upbeat song. But then, I am an upbeat kind of guy. Today, I went to the bowling alley and, though one game was contested by a militant feminist faction, I won three games in a row―without breaking one hundred. JLE throws the whole ball with her body/BKG throws her whole body with the ball, but that one pin was glued down.

Fish are jumping.

I haven't been getting the reading done that I should. I am three/fourths of the way through Attila Bartis's TRANQUILITY and, though I like it well enough, I have taken untold breaks while reading it to read Le Carré's THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD and Ludlum's THE BOURNE IDENTITY and I've also been getting a review blog started―which, as it turns out, is easier to start than to update. No fault can be found with the delightful folks who have volunteered their reviews, but . . . I just wish I knew more about all there is to know, that's all. Where's Squeo when you want him?

The cotton is high.

In other news, with my warranty on my laptop winding down and my battery charge winding down faster, I am preparing to buy a new laptop. A hot black MacBook, only years after they debuted. I'm anticipating obsolescence with four gigs of RAM, but when you make as little as I do, you cannot make such a move lightly. I'm making it lightly.

Nothing can harm you.

Jessica washed the sheets. God bless her. She also washed my shirts last week. She's a cleansing force in my life, a bright light that burns away the filth and the shit that accumulate around me. She destroys grime and sweat and leaves behind only cleanliness and purity. And sometimes she moves my books and throws me a new world, forces me to build again. She's the flood, le deluge, God's solution. And she's good at it.

I'm gonna rise up singing.