Well. . .

I may have to quit reading the blogs of Bob B., Bob D., and David. I read their blogs, and I feel prompted to go to Amazon to buy CD's. I mean, sheesh, I've just come off of being on strike for six months, and besides, I'm part Scottish.

Woe Betide the Heat Weenies

Redding, California is a nice place to live, especially if you like outdoor activities. It's no cultural hotspot, but with the Turtle Bay Exploration Park, two symphony orchestras, and the restored art deco Cascade Theater, it ain't exactly a cultural desert either.

I've enjoyed living here, but everyone choosing to live in the area pays the piper come summertime. It gets HOT. Many summer days aren't too bad--mid and high nineties--but we get perhaps 15 days per summer with temps reaching 105 or more. There is something to that "dry heat" idea; I can attest as much from my years of working in south Louisiana, where the humidity can stick to you like pancake syrup. But hey, when it gets to 105 degrees or more, it's just freakin' HOT, and that "dry heat" notion is scant comfort.

The heat here may very well be a blessing in disguise: I sometimes suspect we'd have a million people living here if not for those triple-digit days. Y'see, we have a couple of wonderful lakes here, Shasta and Whiskeytown. Mount Lassen National Park is but an hour away, as is the Mount Shasta Ski Park. (For climbers, there's also the lure of Mount Shasta itself.) You'll see fly fishermen casting along the Sacramento River right in the Redding city limits, and the nearby Russian and Trinity Alps Wildernesses beckon campers and backpackers.

If I'm sounding like a real estate agent casting about for out-of-the-area equity, stand by: no matter how much a person might feel drawn to this area's outdoor recreation opportunities, if he or she is a heat weenie, he or she ain't gonna make it.

We've already seen triple-digits, with the first day of summer still a week away. The average high for yesterday's date is 90 degrees, and the average low is 59 degrees. Yesterday, though, the temp reached 101 in Redding, and as I write this at 1:30 a.m., it's still 84 degrees in town. (It's 74 in the foothills above town where we live. Living off of the valley floor has its benefits.)

According to the Weather Channel website, the forecast is for a high of 100 degrees again tomorrow. This year, the annual heat weenie exodus may commence early.

What's Up with That?/Batting Practice

I went to the gym this morning. I've started a new routine that's kicking my butt. When I finished and walked out to the car, I sat listening to music and drinking water. I watched a young guy in a wanna-be monster truck circling around the parking lot. There were plenty of spaces where I sat, but no, the guy wanted to get closer. There's a pizza place a few doors down from my gym, and I assumed he was heading there. But no: he finally scored a more desirable parking spot, jumped out of his truck wearing workout attire, and walked into the gym.

If I find myself slipping into a bout of low self-esteem, I'll just reflect on that little moment.

***

I'm not a big team-sports fan. In fact, when my dad died in '91, I pretty much lost interest in pro sports.

I've been determined to avoid pushing Dylan into sports. That said, we've introduced him to gymnastic lessons, karate, and swimming, but I've sort of furtively hoped he might gain an interest in baseball. The kid has a hell of an arm on him, something we discovered when he was but six months old.

My sister-in-law's boyfriend has an acquaintance who was, for a short time, a pitcher in major league baseball. He had the guy talked into coaching Dylan when he was only four, but I nixed that idea. I don't want my son being channeled into something he's not interested in simply because he has a good arm.

Still, I confess I've been a wee bit disappointed that he's shown little interest when I've parked the TV channel on a baseball game, or when we've given him baseball gloves.

Something changed last month. Rhonda took Dylan to a sporting goods store to buy some gym shorts, and when he saw the section with baseball gloves and bats, he locked on. First she bought him a glove and a ball. Then we took him back for a bat. That was a couple of days ago, on my birthday.

For my birthday, Dylan decided that Daddy should be taken to see Shrek the Third. (He's a very considerate kid.) We had some extra time before the movie started, so we drove to an empty part of the parking lot. I asked Dylan if he wanted to try a little batting practice. He didn't take much convincing.

I helped him get the correct grip on the bat, and maneuvered him into something approximating a correct stance. Before I backed off to throw the ball, I reminded him to be patient with himself, because batting wasn't an easy thing to learn.

I threw the first ball. He hit a decent ground ball. Wow, I was surprised. I threw the ball again. He hit a line drive directly to my forehead. It hurt.

Since then, I've been a little less complacent with his batting practice.

That evening, he watched about a half-hour of a baseball game. It was his idea.

Stay tuned.

Ranting Sometimes Comes with a Price

I try not to talk about people behind their backs. But sometimes, I do.

Back in the eighties, I realized that I was doing too much of that for my own sense of self-respect. So, I made a New Year's resolution: no more badmouthing people unless it was to their faces.

For about two months, I stuck faithfully to my resolution. I was proud of myself for taking such a high road. But then, I began noticing that nearly everyone was irritating the hell out of me.

So, I began allowing myself the occasional rant. Most of us, I suppose, need to vent now and then. I simply decided to be more judicious about it.

I've been feeling seriously grumpy since I've been back home from my last stint in the Gulf of Mexico. I don't know why, but it might have something to do with having to be away part of the time again.

I've felt more need to vent.

A couple of days ago, Rhonda and I went to Dylan's school to pick him up. We hung around after school so Dylan could play with some of his classmates. We were talking with one of the moms, and the subject of pushy people came up.

Since I'd been in the mood to rant for a week or so, I brought up a woman I'll call G. G worked in the same field as my wife. Upon moving to town, she decided that since they both worked in the same field, and since they were both women, they simply had to be friends.

G began calling with an itinerary for Rhonda, an itinerary with all of the activities they'd be doing together over the weekends. The itineraries didn't leave much time for Rhonda's husband. (That would be me.) In any case, Rhonda didn't feel comfortable with G from the onset, and even if she had, she wouldn't have been inclined to spend her weekends as designed by someone else.

Rhonda is too nice for her own good at times, and she tried to disengage herself gently. When G finally got the hint, she took great offense nevertheless.

So, I was just getting up a curmudgeonly head of steam about how irritating G was when I noticed a look on Rhonda's face. It was a look of disapproval. I was a little surprised, since I was trying to couch my comments about G in a humorous way. But still, there was the look. Married guys know the look.

Finally, I interrupt myself. "What?" I ask Rhonda, feeling a little irritated that I might be robbed of an opportunity to vent about someone or something other than Starbucks. "I never told you?" "No," I answered.

"G committed suicide."

Whomp. I tried to salvage the moment by making further comments about G in an overtly funny way, but they fell flat. I tried to get out of a hole by continuing to dig. Rhonda looked pained; the other mom looked decidedly uncomfortable.

For the last couple of days, I've been feeling kinda small.