Between my observation on July 28 that traffic seems light this year and my brief last post, everyone seemed to hit town at once.
Not complaining, just observing: even if you love your work, getting a blast of it so strong you can't even do it all is like having your favorite food shoved down your throat with a toilet plunger. The next idiot who says, "but it's great to be busy, right?" is getting a wrench in the teeth.
The quality of drivers dropped noticeably with the coming of August as well. There are more of them and they resist herding. You have to make early, large moves to control them or give it up and dive for the ditch. I've been making the moves.
Even the crotch-rocket riders are making a late bid to reclaim their badass image.
Bursts of gunfire erupt from neighboring properties around my home. Unlicensed dirt bikes were screeching up and down the road on Saturday. It's so peaceful here.
In the midst of all this the cellist and I celebrated our seventh anniversary on 8-9-10, making it 7-8-9-10. The way the festivities evolved I only had to take an extra half-day away from work. We had a mixed group of musicians ranging from professional to complete novice jamming on the deck for a few hours on Saturday evening. Selections ranged from Beethoven and Pachelbel to Irish jigs, drumming, blues, bluegrass and Jimi Hendrix. Take that, screechy dirt bikers.
On Monday the cellist and I went to dinner and a concert by Bela Fleck, Zakir Hussain and Edgar Meyer at Stone Mountain Arts Center, a remarkable little venue in Brownfield, Maine. It's a small place. The performers tend to hang around afterward so you can meet them if you're interested. We certainly were.
Interesting projects wait in the workshop. They're a nice interlude between figuring out snap, crackle pops in expensive carbon fiber road bikes and resurrecting greasy wreckage.