Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

A soggy Saturday morning here in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor after a night of steady, and at times heavy, rain.  Despite that, Ol’ Robbo heard not a single clap of the thunder my phone “app” had been promising all day.  (And believe me, I would have heard it:  I’ve been sleeping terribly these past few weeks.)  In this, I am quite disappointed.  Back in the days of his misspent yoot, Ol’ Robbo used to be quite frightened of thunder and lightning, but now I revel in them, and get excited whenever they turn up in the forecast.  (And no, unlike G. Gordon Liddy, I didn’t need to lash myself to a tree to overcome my fears.  It just happened.)


I gather we get to try again tomorrow but I’m not getting my hopes up too high.

Meanwhile, in anticipation of last night’s said rain,  Ol’ Robbo was out yesterday with his new spreader reseeding some of the sketchier patches in the Port Swiller lawn.  I am not by any means one of those suburbanite warriors who slaves away over each individual blade of grass in perpetuation of an unacknowledged but nonetheless vicious neighborhood struggle for status and prestige.  (This isn’t just a hipster, bourgeoisie-hating urbanite meme, by the bye. My old next-door neighbor was one of those fellahs and kept his lawn immaculate.)  But there reaches a certain point where the creeping bare patches and weed to grass ratio demand that I do more than just mow every week or two.  I determined I’d crossed that threshold this spring, so steps are now being taken.  We shall see what happens.  Truth be told, I fear I’ve already left it too late for my feeble amateur ministrations and that professional help is going to be needed, but I’m just not ready to start spending coin on that just yet.