on smelling like a wet feral dog, and reading george saunders

I made the mistake of washing the dog’s bed with a few of my shirts last night. I made the additional mistake of wearing one of those shirts to work today, on one of the hottest days on record. It smelled fine when I put it on — I promise – but with each micro-liter of sweat that my fleshy body secreted, another plume of wet dog stink rose up from me like a mushroom cloud. I cannot even begin to express to you how extremely powerful and noxious it was. I’m not particularly upset by odors generally (I slow down my car to drink in the smells of skunk and manure) and it made me want to tear off my clothes and rip at my moist, warm flesh with the wire brush I use to clean my bar-b-que gril. So, my whole day was spent avoiding people in the hallway and hoping that no one stuck in the elevator with me felt the need to projectile vomit.

I’m going to reward myself for having survived by going to bed early tonight, and reading George Saunders’ short story, “Sea Oak.” (Linette tells me that I’ll like it.) If you’re looking for something to do, and if Saunders isn’t your cup of tea, my friend Dan, the school teacher in Minneapolis, recommends reading up on Hedonics. Or then there’s the site called Third Banana that Doug Skinner just told me about. I’ve just spent the last ten minutes there, watching early comedy shorts, and I suspect, if I can’t sleep, I’ll be back later. Or, maybe I’ll just fixate on the fact that the world is ending while commiserating with the dog.