Ninety-seven degrees today in Eugene – making us the Hot, Dry, and Stupid Capital of the World – for Thursday, at least. That means swimming down in Pioneer Park. The slithy toves of Eugene will only steal cars with functional air conditioning, and hammer-wielding desperadoes require sunscreen across their bald, larcenous heads as the scope garages for things to steal. I guess that’s a victory for those of us with no air conditioning, cars, or garages.
I myself have been lying low finishing the re-write of this novel. My celebratory dance in the upstairs apartment was cut short by the pounding from RoseMarie on the first floor. RoseMarie is a landlord and a neighbor moved out last week. She was in no mood for literary joy – she’s got to inspect for damages, return a deposit – all those standard landlord activities. When it comes to the arts, she’s a reluctant patron.
Speaking of which – when it comes to Eugene, it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity. Last week, a lethal car accident on I-5 became that much worse when a rando drone operator prevented the medevac from landing safely. There’s a certain lyrical rhythm to Oregon’s terminal case of dopey narcissism and I’m not sure what the next notes will be. Certainly not something you want to speculate on when we’re smack in the middle of fire season.
I’m finishing the production on a new audio short story. More news to follow, look for smoke on the horizon and keep Moxie and Mason appeased. No rest for the wicked as you write the Next Great American Novel.
