checkerboard lawn

Our neighbor who drives us insane with his incessant gas-powered lawn machines spent hours the other day cutting a checkerboard pattern in his grass. He should really live in the suburbs because nobody on our block, hell not even our whole street, cares this much about lawns. There is a house on the next block that I swear has not had the grass cut all summer. What the heck, the rabbits love it.

Yesterday morning we went to buy groceries for our dinner. The grocery store is a highly stimulating experience at 10 o'clock in the morning. This is why we prefer the pre-dawn hours for shopping. We had a little breakfast and coffee, visited the friendly meat department, and got the hell out of there.

We had kids around for dinner. Regis cooked steaks to perfection. We had great sweet corn on the grill, baked potatoes, melon from Marie's garden, and pickles from the farmer's market. Ella gave me a hand and foot massage on the patio later and we enjoyed the summer evening.

Every time I hear music outside, I think it's the trolley coming. I wish that were a regular feature of life on my street. A horse-drawn trolley coming by every day. That would be something.

I've discovered that I am a social media minimalist. I like my block, I use Facebook, and even occasionally look at Twitter. What I don't get is all the @s and #s. If a post has more than one of either of them, I move on to something else.

I found a blog (and of course they have a FB and Twitter presence, too.) called Tech for Luddites. It explained what hashtags are but I still think it's goofy. It's a way to create communities so today I'm going to write a tweet about #extremelawnmowing and see what happens.

I'm getting left behind. I'm my dad when he was confronted with a digital clock. Just say no to hashtags.

I don't really have much of a plan for the day. Ella and I might go see the Govenaire's drum corps show tonight. I might work in the garden and transplant a few more hostas. I might take a nap and read a book. All of it sounds good.


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