Sol searching

Another glorious summer solstice in Seattle — which means extra-extra daylight by which we may regard the clouds hanging over the city.

Rambunctious week, weather-wise. The mornings have been cold and gray, pressing me into yardwork early (so as to get my hacking and slashing in ahead of the rain). Within three swings of the scythe, though, the sun comes out of friggin' nowhere and scorches me. So I dash inside to ditch the jacket and change into shorts, and by the time I return... rain.

Note: Wrathfully hurling your shears skyward solves nothing. It only alarms the neighbors and makes the cats avoid you.

Afternoons are no better. Regardless of how fair the skies appear when Linus and I set out on our postprandial walk, it is assured that we will return either soaked or broiled.

The evenings have been consistently lovely, although yesterday Maus and I were met with what seemed to be blasts of arctic wind as we strolled to the local pub. Two pints of Stella ensured warmth — or at least numbness — for the return trip.

June in Seattle.

Right now it looks like good weather for heavy yardwork — cool and overcast, gentle breeze — but I ain't biting. No, today I shall honor daylight's apogee by staying in and watching spaghetti westerns — at least until the weather decides to get its story straight.

We're gonna need some more FBI guys, I guess...

Late news (2 weeks old)... but I only just heard: Paul Gleason died on May 27, only 3 weeks after being diagnosed with a rare and particularly nasty type of lung cancer.

That's Paul Gleason as in the inept Deputy Police Chief from Die Hard (“Oh, I hope that's not a hostage”); the sinister “fixer” from Trading Places (who ends up as a gorilla's caged love-slave); and of course, always and forever, Vice Principal Dick Vernon from The Breakfast Club (“Don't mess with the bull, young man — you'll get the horns”).

Before he turned to acting, Gleason played college football with Burt Reynolds, was a AAA ballplayer for many years, and was drinking buddies with Jack Kerouac — details that all seem strikingly out of character for a guy who played so many men-with-sticks-up-their-asses.

His cocky swagger was unparalleled — definitive, really. And he always gave the stupidest lines a devastatingly straight delivery (“The next screw that falls out is gonna be you”).

By the early 90s, he didn't even have to speak... he was funny on sight. He'd enter the room, and the whole audience would share an oh-no-not-THIS-guy moment. Someone would mutter “I'm crackin' skulls,” and the chuckling would begin. The only other character actor I can think of who pulled that off was John “Double-Secret Probation” Vernon.

Our loss. Detention will never be the same.

Not funny

To the scoundrel who dumped either Miracle-Gro or a Barry Bonds Milkshake all over my lawn while I was away (paraphrasing Eddie Murphy): Ha ha very funny, mofo.

Seriously, I was only gone for 12 days. Nary a fortnight. I come back, and the grass (trimmed to fairway standards when I left) is up past my knees. And all tassled and flowery. With weeds the size of manhole covers.

And the yard didn't even have the benefit of the usual fertilization provided by Linus, who stayed with friends while we were away. Yet it looks like three months went by back there.

Grr. I fought this battle already, and won. My wounds haven't even healed yet. And already the yard is back, bigger and badder than before, and laughing at me.