There are two kinds of men in this world: Those who have cut down a tree, and those who are smart enough to pay some other poor bastard to do it.

This weekend I traveled to The Eleven Acre Wood, new homestead of my Father-in-Law. His house is under construction. There are a line of dead trees along one side of his front yard, tall enough to damage cars or property if they would fall sometime in the future when the yard is more developed. FiL wanted those trees felled before the front yard is cultivated and paved.

Hey! I’ve got a chainsaw! I can do that! Maybe I can work my way up to Second Favorite Son-in-Law.

Pruh! Jeez Louise. I forgot how much work it is to cut down a tree with my undersized little Craftsman chainsaw. Rocking that 18-inch blade back and forth strained weird chest muscles that I didn’t know I had until I woke this morning to find them staging a Million Myosin March.  I only managed to fell and chop two of the most dangerous trees. I believe the others can be felled “backwards” into the woods (where I won’t have to chop ‘em up into little pieces. That’s the part that kills you.)

As I was beering away my strenuous day in the bucolic pizzeria with free WiFi, I checked my email. Surprise! I received some very kind words from a betareader who I had no idea was reading my betareader copy of Selfie. Not only did she provide some much-needed skirt fluffing and ego-repair, but she managed to find seven errors that were heretofore missed by some very skilled betareaders. Seven more ticks pulled off the dog. I’m a happy man.

Speaking of ticks…

Is there any romantic notion more absolutely bullshit than the romance of camping? Really? The box tents ship in always depict a manicured golf course of wide open grassland, sweeping up toward a breathtaking mountain range.

But where does 98% of all tent assembly take place? Some overpacked Warehouse of White Trash campground filled with stereo-blasting yokels and Lego-stacked RVs. What a crock.

Decent mobile phone reception, though. While waiting for the Boomhauer convention to run out of fireworks and Motley Crüe tunes, I watched a Netflix movie on my phone as I lay in my tent. Crazy. I’ve never tried that before. I can’t believe it worked.

Far less depressing than listening to my beloved Cardinals lose again. Makes me so angry I could cut down a tree. Maybe I should drink another beer.