A.J. Floyt: "It's g****mned humid out."

The pleasantness of spring (recent crappy weather notwithstanding) has given way to July-like weather. The season of simple endurance is upon us.

I've carried out three very simple chores outside over the last two days, and sweat poured out of every pore, including places where I didn't know I had sweat glands. Managed to fill up Son's pool yesterday, so it should be near comfortable temperatures today. Also put a new flag on the flagpole. Dad said he'd be awfully disappointed if he came over and saw us flying a tattered flag, and I'd be disappointed too.

Today, I put some horseshoe stakes in the ground (regulation: 40 ft distance between the two posts) and stupendously (see paragraph 1 of below post) tossed some 'shoes for awhile. To what end, I don't know - it's not like I'm going to enter any horseshoe tournaments anytime soon. The real temperature is 90, and the humidity is probably in the 80 percent range. It's friggin' hot, too hot for your fat little buddy here.

So, I figured I'd come back inside and look at bridges. Wife is helping prepare for her niece's graduation party at 4, and Son is at my dad's for the day. Writer's block is starting to lift a little bit, and my mood has improved considerably despite the smothering heat that creeps up inside of your clothes and saps your will to perform any physical activity.

Spent yesterday with Son, as my wife had been in Chicago for work for three days. We loaded up all of the aluminum cans we had saved and took them over to my high school buddy's recycling center about 45 minutes away; he made it worth the drive, as he was paying 75 cents a pound for cans. Afterwards, we dropped in on the Captain for a short visit; Son scared his cat and played with a decorative rock/candle item on the coffee table, and later stepped on dog poop in the yard. It was a nice time.

There's an Indy 500 marathon on ESPN Classic today. Some of my fondest childhood memories are going down to my grandma's on the Sunday before Memorial Day, packing a picnic lunch and going up to the top of the hill behind her house with the rest of the extended family, listening to the race on the radio since Indiana TV stations were blacked out of the live coverage. Our family was full of A.J. Foyt fans, and it took me several years to learn that it was "Foyt" and not "Floyt."

Before I dropped my wife off at her sister's to help prepare for the graduation party, they were showing the 1982 race on ESPN Classic, which featured the accident in the runup to the green flag that took out four cars after 2nd-place qualifier Kevin Cogan inexplicably veered right into Floyt's car, then bounced off Mario Andretti, who said afterwards that "this is what happens when you have children doing a man's job." Floyt said that Cogan was driving with "his head in his ass." Hee.

Only rarely do you hear such candid commentary anymore in racing. Too bad, too; the commercialization of auto racing has stripped it of its rogueish charm. That's my problem with NASCAR anymore: be sure you thank your sponsors, and don't trash the other guy. Ugh.