The mosquitoes were out in force tonight.  I managed to get a couple of hours in the garden after work before they drove me away.  At one point I looked down and there were, like, a dozen feeding on various exposed fleshy bits of me. 

Speaking of fleshy bits.  I am reposting this shot from Iory and Leo's garden from yesterday, because I find it strangely, if rather innocently, erotic:


Here's a view of another neighbor's nook...


And various and sundry florae for your consideration...


As for fauna, I ran into my Fenway neighbor Tony the other afternoon, and he greeted me with a surprised "haven't seen you around in ages!"  But it is actually he who has not been seen in Row E in some time, as I gently reminded him.  He has more or less quit his garden in protest (I gathered) of the current board, who hacked up his rose hedge twice this year.  He's also been grumbling about leaving the garden society for good (if his garden's not revoked first, that is). 

We'd all be sorry to see him go, of course.  Tony's taught me a lot over the past three years we've been neighbors in the Victory Gardens.  I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed in the way he's handled the current "crisis." It's not that getting riled up is not perfectly justified under the circumstances, it's that getting angry about someone destroying something you love and then essentially aiding and abetting them in this is disappointing, a failure of imagination and will.  Not a huge one.  An everyday, ordinary garden-variety one.  But still.

Tony seems to have taken the struggle to heart, but doesn't seem to be using what's in his heart to help in the struggle.  Sometimes a stiff upper lip is called for, and if there's anything gardeners are known for it's their indomitability.  I hope he'll summon the imagination and will, and muster the heart to do some weeding soon, at any rate, before his whole garden goes to seed. 

And if he's worried that the board has not got the message, I say "living well is the best revenge." The best way to assure that no one will give a damn about you is to give up.  It's a cliché, I know, but giving up is easy.  Somebody bitch-slaps you, invite them for a sleep-over, get them really drunk, and tea-bag them while they're passed out on the couch.  Take pictures.  Post them on the internet.  Revenge ain't rocket science, either.

There are some who have hinted that maybe there's something else going on — that this is actually a cry for help.  There may be something to it.  I was on my way from another gardener, Steve's plot with his weed-wacker when we ran into Tony on the path on his way home from work.  While we were chatting a kid in flip-flops walked by and Steve and I started talking about his feet.  Steve’s a fairly well-known foot fetishist.

Tony turned his nose up at the kid. 

"I guess you're into twinks," he told Steve, with apparent disapproval.

"Not really," Steve said.  "Just feet."

I said I liked feet, too, although not to the exclusion of other things. But if Tom Brady came along in a pair of flip-flops and wanted his toes sucked, I'd do it.

The veins started popping in Tony's temples.

“Tom Brady! Pah! I don’t know what’s so great about Tom Brady – pig face!”

I said I liked a man who could get emotional about football (but not quite as emotional as Brett Favre).

Tony 's eyes narrowed: “football’s a game for idiots! For people with a four-second attention span! Anyone who could get emotional about football is a moron!”

I said, "well, I like the uniforms. The bottom halves especially."

Tony screeched: “the uniforms??? BAH! Most of the players are fat and ugly!”

I decided to try a little experiment.  Word association.

"Blue," I said.

"BAH!" said he. "Disgusting, stupid color!”

"Um... dog."

"Filthy shit-eating beast!"

"Day."

"Night!"

"Love?"

"Hate!"

"OK," I said.  "Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

I'd say it's just Tony being Tony.  But there is something a little out of joint.  I mean, these are the sweet, waning days of high summer, after the stress of mass forced vacations and before the desperation of early autumn and the drudgery of winter descend, when we quietly savor the immensity of the season. 

True, this summer seemed short, with a July that was more like October, but still.  The days are getting noticeably shorter, and soon we'll be shuffling to and from work in utter darkness, bundled up, looking inward, and waiting... waiting... waiting...

I was talking to my bff in Budapest the other day.  One of his dogs died a couple of weeks ago, sending him into a mini-tailspin.  He's in his mid-forties, and told me he realized that the death of his friends and family is mainly what awaits him. 

"In my life," he told me, "everyone is going to die."  He has but to wait for it.

I tried to console him a little. 

"There's always something to look forward to," I told him.  "Even if it's just the end."