Thursday, June 05, 2008

A melancholic Don Quixote fights the good fight against the windmills of entropy:

Two days ago I discovered that the cat had been peeing in our laundry. A gallon of Nature's Miracle and two washes per rewashed load later and I feel like I am making progress.

Two weeks ago - after my dad and I chopped down the dead tree that prevented people from seeing into my backyard - someone stole my lawnmower. I was a 1986
self-propelled Snapper. I'd been having trouble with it dying on me in the middle of a cut and had been on bad terms with it when we were parted - I'm trying to remain positive about the theft and chalk it up to the unwritten tax on city life. So far they've taken a grill, a lawnmower, a yard cart for pulling weeds, a Peroni beer glass filled with ice water (while I was mowing), and my van - but I got the van back. Crime sucks.

Soooooooooo, now I keep running over to David's to borrow his electric mower, which is a pain in the neck all around. The lawn is definitely getting away from me given the record rains that we've had - I think the wettest Spring on record - near biblical flooding and I've lost the means to combat my plague of grass. I had bought the mower out of a front yard in Kinloch - which means it might have been stolen when I bought it - so we'll chalk up its continued transience to the vicissitudes of karma.

Just now I found a tribe of ants gathering force in the dog's dish. I'll have to run out to Target for Raid chemical death houses in a little bit. I tried to dump out all the standing water in the backyard last night to impede the growth of mosquitoes, but that's the thing about insect plagues and entropy in general - you know when you start to fight that it's a battle you'll eventually lose. No matter how empirically pyrrhic things appear, we soldier on in the great plate spinning enterprises of our false immortality - all the while marching to the crematoria of our constituent elements. My father has a great phrase for all this abstract busyness, he calls it rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Can I get a Sancho?


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