ZZZZZzzzzz.....

      Tired. I'm very tired. Too many irons in the fire. Must hit release button before gravity of combined projects pulls me into the singularity of doom. Too ... late ... NOOOOO00000oooooooo......
      Well, you get the point. Projects are getting done, but not at the rate I'd like them to be completed. I'm hoping to get the set finished this week. That's my plan. We'll see how it goes. But once it's done, a lot of other projects should fall into place.
      I almost have the July family newsletter done. Yes, I know. July. But I should be able to print it and mail it this weekend. And then I'll start on the August one. I'll take two weeks to do it. Then in November, I will do the September and October and possibly the November. I know I'm capable of it, but a lot depends on what articles and photos my contributors turn in. And then, of course, December's will be in December. That's the plan. And you know what they say about plans.
      What else? Let's see. We're having disgustingly clear skies here. We need rain and lots of it, but so far, the clouds haven't been obliging. Ponds and lakes are still diminished. Can you say dustbowl? Do you know of an effective rain dance? Why aren't you answering my questions? Why? Don't give me any lip! Just answer my questions!
      Ahem.
      Did I mention I'm tired? No, seriously tired. My feet are tired, my eyes are tired, my hands are tired, my back's in pain, my neighbors are tied up in my basement, my legs are tired, my brain is even tired. Tired, I tell you! Don't argue with me! I have a collection of Manilow albums and I'm not afraid to use them!
      I've always liked Barry Manilow. Not all of his songs, of course -- for instance, "Why Don't We Be Lonely Together?" is bad, bad, bad, and no, I didn't make that title up -- but many of his earlier songs were quite good. Later he would over-produce and over-orchestrate his music until it reached mind-numbing sameness, but even then, you could hear some touches of true musical genius. Yes, now you know. I like Barry Manilow's music. I see that smirk! When I release the rabid robot monkeys, you're going down, bucko!
      My house is slowly piling up. Eventually the piles will collapse and kill someone. But not me. I don't go there. I just toss things into the house from a safe distance. It's like a sport, except I don't get paid obscene amounts of money to do it. No, there's just that grim satisfaction that comes when I imagine future archaeologists digging up my collection of socks without mates. They will devise all sorts of theories to explain this: A tribe of one-legged mutants or a cult that sacrifices one sock of each pair to the great sock god Toesagar or even a group of pacifists who burn one sock to protest the world's evils. As the archaeologists debate, my dryer comes up behind them. It's huge now, having fed on socks for years. It pounces on them! They don't even have time to scream. The next day search teams find their dried, Bounce-fresh bodies. Some things are not meant for man to know. Or woman, either.
      I have to go back to work now. What justice is there in that? I ask you. You have a good rest of the day, okay? Okay.