Second Coat.

We warmed, but not like you'd think—maybe I don't read the fancies so closely any more, but I'd expected hotter. It was sweaty staple-gunning plastic dropcloths to the door moldings I drove into the ground to protect the tomatoes from the paving dust, yes. That work, though, will always be sweaty, at least in June. Morning sun. Staple gun. Plastic sheets. The machinery bearing down from down the street. Action-thriller stuff. Dystopian, even. Somebody get us a script treatment around here. A book deal. A book club, at least.

The rest of the day? Coolish breeze under all that warm sun. Second coat of bright-white enamel on the windows. At least one more to go. Pulling the blue tape between coats because I've been too much on the interweb DIY chatboards, and the fuckers playing around in there have much time and bluster on their hands. Do it better than you can possibly conceive of or don't even get the brush off the shelf, seems to be the rule of the day. Make your own brushes. Grow your own trees from which to cut and plane your own trim.

Last of the night: the Toad hollering all the way home from 27244 about how he wanted a balloon. Then a ballgame with a Jerry Lewis impersonator. Beer. Fried pickles. Now back home with the Braves trying to give one away to the Torontos, a team we should never see except in October. Whiskey in an olive jar, summer lurking out the windows. Sleepy senile dog. Sleeping Toad. Friday. Another week survived, if only just.