The thing I like to do best in the summer is do nothing. When else can you get away with such bare minimums of activity and still feel okay about yourself? Honestly I’d be happy if all I did was sit quietly, alternately in the sun or in the shade—depending on temperature, and read John Steinbeck or something else good, and after a little while, maybe put the book down so I could watch the way the gnats are going crazy in a shaft of sun over the rosebush, or the bees in the rosemary, or the dog lick-nibbling his paw, or, or, or ….

It’s fun to bookend those hushed hours with other stuff, though—like drinking iced coffee with cream through a pink straw, skating in the heat and then swimming the sweat off, sipping cool things on verandas under white garden lights, and so on. I’ll probably try to fit some of that in, too.

Now that the ugly part of spring is over, I think it’s safe to talk about it. Like, therapeutically. How all that rain made us feeeel. How the goosebumps, the mud that found its way onto the kitchen tile, and the low-slung steely sky just re-affirmed all the gloom and doom inside us. Now …. let it go.

Aanyway, though, before the sun officially came out last week, I took a spin out to the Oregon Coast, just me and Big Left. Passed quietly through the green hallway that is HWY 26. Emerged at Canon Beach and caught Haystack Rock in the rearview mirror. Headed south to Manzanita as the winds kicked up and walked for a very long time on the beach. And it was very, very cold.

On the sand, Lefty booked it in all directions with his tongue flapping wildly behind him. The beach is an exquisite joy to dogs. As far as these little fellas are concerned, nipping at the surf and chasing gulls for miles are reasons for livin’.

Next day, woke to pouring rain. Despite this, I wanted to walk up the Oregon Coast Trail a spell. Which I did, as long as I possibly could. Up through the fog. Past electric green undergrowth beneath tall, wise trunks. Eventually, the deluge becoming so bad that I slipped and fell scrambling over some muddy tree roots. Promptly, with mud from foot to neck, I turned for home.

A feather, for luck.

Derby Day, 2012—a good day (as if any day’s not!) to read some Hunter S. Thompson.

Click HERE to read The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, HST’s 1970 article for Scanlan’s Monthly that depicts the derby as a “jaded, atavistic freakout with nothing to recommend it except a very saleable ‘tradition.’”

Also: “Anybody who wanders around the world saying, ‘Hell yes, I’m from Texas,’ deserves whatever happens to him.”

Love you Hunty.

Spring is, perhaps, the most brutal of all the seasons. Hot sun thaws the earth for a minute, and everything seems possible—and then suddenly. raw wind rips away all hope.

It’s not my favorite season, but I kinda think it smells the best. Spring buds smell all fresh and green like the cold water that fed them. Cut grass makes you dizzy. Pollen wafts in pungent clouds through the breeze, floating straight past your nasal membrane and on into your brain cave …

The older I get, the more clear I become about who my real friends are. So .. this one’s for Lefty—part Newfie, part shepherd, all homey…Happy birthday!

So, you may ask, has dogsville changed my life at all in the past year? Hell yeah it has. Filthy car. Hair tumbleweeds in every corner. Poop, as a kind of looming, ever-present presence. And yet … pure, unadulterated, unconditional love.

Kitchen threshold—hands down, still his fave spot to lay around. He just takes up a little more room now.

Thug life.

Back when he was all claws and teeth.

As guard dogs go, he’s not the fiercest, but he keeps an eye on everything in his own way.

Lettin it hang out on the cool tile, what could be better?

First hike. Big Left gets his own water bottle.

Nabbed by the paparazzi at a party.

First snow! Many nips and snarfs, to be sure.

Awkward teen phase.

“The true essence, the secret recipe of the forest and the light and the dark was far too fine and subtle to be observed with my blunt eye—water sac and nerves, miracle itself, fine itself: light catcher. But the thing itself is not the forest and light and dark, but something else scattered by my coarse gaze, by my dumb intention. The quilt of leaves and light and shadow and ruffling breezes might part and I’d be given a glimpse of what is on the other side; a stitch might work itself loose or be worked loose. The weaver might have made one bad loop in the foliage of a sugar maple by the road and that one loop of whatever the thread might be wound from—light, gravity, dark from stars—had somehow been worked loose by the wind in its constant worrying of white buds and green leaves and blood-and-orange leaves and bare branches and two of the pieces of whatever it is that this world is knit from had come loose from each other and there was maybe just a finger width’s hole, which I was lucky enough to spot in the glittering leaves … and nimble enough to scale the silver trunk and brave enough to poke my finger into the tear, that might offer to the simple touch a measure of tranquillity or reassurance.”

Thoreau mighta said this, but he didn’t—Paul Harding did.

Two days worth of the flu, and no one to take care of me.

Sweat and then shivered, all night.

Let hair turn into nest for small animals. Didn’t care.

Willed myself to the dog park, for Lefty’s sake.

Dragged my pillow out to the couch and made a little fort, from where I watched Rango, The Tale of Despereaux, and the Ken Burns doc about Lewis and Clark.

Went into work and spread germs around to the skaters of Portland.

They released Instagram for Androids last week, and just like that, I’m on it—after months of pining. I’ll be honest, though, it hasn’t really enhanced the quality of my life like I thought it might, and I don’t know, there’s something inauthentic about seeing the world and your experiences in terms of Instagram posts. Then again, want to follow me?

Sunflower Seed Butter

The king of all the butters. More fiber than PB, and more taste—not unlike the crisp, earthy essence of fresh-popped popcorn distilled into spreadable form, if that makes any sense?

Cara Cara Oranges

The stock boy at the local produce market turned me on to these when he noticed I had, like, seven pink grapefruits in my basket. You see, the Cara Cara is a nice compromise between orange and grapefruit—sweet, but not too sweet, with a tart left hook right on the tail the end.

Juanita’s Corn Chips

Made in Hood River (keep it local!), but that’s beside the point. Juanita’s are the saltiest, flakiest, butteriest, most delicious of all the corn chips, and I’ll stand my ground on this.

Monterey Jack

I used to be exclusive with cheddar—sharp cheddar, whenever possible. But recently I’ve been dabbling, and friends, Monterey Jack is so smooth and creamy, and not without a snappy flavor of its own.

Lindt Intense Mint Chocolate

I can’t be trusted with cake or cookies, but a bar of this can repose in my freezer for as much as a week while I slowly nibble the rich, dark squares one by one from the foil. It’s a matter of respect, you know?

Of a rainy night, I sat down to watch Bruce Springsteen’s entire keynote speech at this year’s South By Southwest. As it turns out, it’s a fine way to spend 50 minutes. Look, I mean it’s the Boss. Giving you a mini-music-culture history lesson. And more.

Things covered in said speech:

•The tragic unknowability of women.

•The sheer ugliness and honesty of The Animals.

•Honing his craft, from zit-faced then to silver foxed now.

•The grit and spit of the blues. “These were soul men and women—not teen idols.”

•The way things that are the “best ever” to you still SUCK to someone else.

•The way country music is like “blues for adults.”

•Bob Dylan: “He is and continues to be the father of my musical country.”

•The small and big things in life that keep us putting one foot in front of the other.

Below are just two snippets, but go HERE to watch the whole thing. WELL worth your while.