Home last night. Just before midnight. Entire day wasted on travel. Lunch of peanuts and pretzels high over the prayer field of Texas. Dinner in the form of overly expensive, excessively spicy Chinese fastfood overlooking a runway in Atlanta. But so damn good to be in my own bed. With my old schedule. Up at six with the kids. Jostle them off to school. Early to work. Try and catch up. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Practice sessions and writing for my Woodstock tribute next week. New phone rapidly approaching. New storage en route. A quarter million in other hardware juggled over head in the form of paperwork and project plans. More than four hundred emails. Up to my waist in them. Finger numb from hitting delete. Costumes. Schedules. A storm on the horizon. Approaching the grim anniversary of Katrina.
These are the dog days of summer. A time where old hound dogs like me are so hot and tired we sit panting and drooling. Trying to catch our breath. Trying to think our way out of this tarpit of heat and sweat and heavy handed profanity. But thinking gets us nowhere. We have to muster the strength to chase down our meals. Even under the glare of an August sun. It is feast or famine these days. And even if I'm short on sharp teeth, this dog still has some bite left in him.
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