24 October 2008

October, when you cannot photograph a chihuahua.

In Autumn, we are watching the leaves go golden and auburn and crisply blow in the chilly breeze to crunchy piles in the driveway, helping the kiddos put together their trick or treat costumes and readying the apple harvest for our first press of tart cider.

My ass.

It's 400 degrees in the shade right now. Hot air sticking to dirt from the sweat you are bleeding at work in the sun. Make you just want to walk around in your underpants. The air is like you are a perm and you are sentenced to sitting in the hair dryer until you curl up and shrink down to nothing. Dogs too tired to be bad. All dogs good dogs right now. Thanks Otterpop. Way too hot to deal with dogs that list Charlton Heston, Tom Cruise, and Charles Manson as fave picks for president. Just embrace the whole Obama thing, Otterpop. Lay in the dirt, chubby stomach heaving in the heat and embrace.

You ever drink Hooch? Hard lemonade? Street corner malt liquor disguised as sugary limon in early '90's grunge type packaging that all the kids love. Cold, I tell you. Cold. Only thing you can drink when you get home, then you pass out on the couch. Instead of reading that informative and well written essay in the New Yorker that explains finances or politics or thread count or whatever. Some damn thing. Hooch. Makes you dream about nothing, the hooch does.

Still can't photograph the Chihuahua.

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