Vile Weed!

I've always said that everyone needs an enemy. It appears I have found my white whale, my Pazuzu. I, Ahab. I, Merrin. The name of this archenemy, scientifically speaking, is Rhus radicans, otherwise known as poison ivy.

Three times in the past two years have I suffered the curse of this demon plant, and each encounter is more exhausting, more maddening, each affliction exacting a greater toll on my patience in an ongoing quest for serenity and blister-free living. I consider the battle between us somewhat ironic because the three-leafed bastard belongs to a phylum I have long considered a friend. Then again, I routinely forsake animal flesh to feast exclusively on its leafy brethren, so I suppose a reckoning of some sort is overdue.

But hear this, vile weed: I shall not submit. I shall not relent. I shall not go quietly. I may scratch, and the amber ooze dormant in the crusty pustules plaguing both legs may flow into my socks, thereby worsening my dilemma, but I will persevere. I will win this fight.

I know where you live. And I own a lawn mower.

Back in the Woods

Snapshots from two days in the woods: Missing the Flyers "make history" and not really caring. Heavy boots. Thick socks. Greenery. Mountain children with juice-stained faces and camouflage pants. Sweating on the incline. Sweating on the decline. High humidity on a Friday afternoon. The threat of blisters. Mountaintop vistas. Blue songbirds. Flowerless rhododendron. Resting in the tall grass by the lake, beneath an azure sky streaked with cotton. Washing my face in a virgin stream.

Heaping piles of kindling. Waterproof matches. Flames. The trials and roundabout normalcy of Coverly Wapshot. Emotional comforts tied to a self-made campfire. Boiling water. The small joys of oatmeal and blueberries. Caffeine addiction, made clear by my ravenous consumption of truly terrible but no less wonderful instant coffee. The horror of running out of wood even though it's not even dark yet. Stars. Memories of well-spent nights under starry skies in California, Arizona, Illinois.

Spotty cell-phone reception. Heavy raindrops keeping rhythm on the tent's vinyl. Bloodsuckers. Spiders. Buzzards. Millipedes. Sleepless nights on the hard ground. Things I lost in the fire -- namely, an overcooked veggie dog. An ashy taste in my mouth. Looking for dry things to burn. Finding the car and heading back east. Mirrors. Deer ticks. Thirty days of doxycycline.

Egg Shen's Revenge

More snapshots from 2010, told in Leander form as seen in John Cheever's "The Wapshot Chronicle": Missing pocket knife. Roving housecats that deserve to be put down. Baby opossums. Raccoons climbing my leg. Camping in the middle of nowhere. Atop the mountain, screaming bloody hell. Broken fingers. Healing fingers. Stiff little fingers. The end of hockey season.

Unexpected phone calls from British chaps. Too many margaritas on Cinco de Mayo. "Cinco de Minco." Hangovers. Death setting in. Resurrection. Winning a 5K. Little fanfare. Circled days. New short-story collections soon to be published. Brain contusions. Expired packaged foods. Axes. Tent stakes. Honors and privileges at such a young age. Jambalaya with meatless sausage, sans shrimp. Oil spills. Arlen Specter's fall from grace. Regina Spektor's "Far" album. Folding chairs. Somehow stopping this train. Turning sixty-eight.

"Moby-Dick." Half Dome. The Adirondacks. Bears. Timber rattlesnakes. Snapping turtles. Newts. Genetically engineered monsters vs. Nazi clones. Bikini-model photo shoots in San Francisco's McCovey Cove. "Astro Zombies." Lyrics: "Prime directive / Exterminate / The whole human race / And your face / Drops in a pile of flesh / And your heart, heart pounds till it pumps in death."

Unexpected phone calls from editors in Chicago. The Ramones. Sepultura. "Wheels" from Jamie Cullum. Threatening e-mails. Warnings. Fallout. FBI agents. Cars with tinted windows and government plates. Knocks on the front door. Computers rebelling. Finished books of New York Times crossword puzzles. Carlin from India, calling and asking me to run away. "Big Trouble in Little China." Jack Burton saying, "What the hell?" Hunter S. Thompson saying, "Buy the ticket, take the ride."

Empty bottles, empty hands, empty hearts. Playoff beards. The Montreal Canadiens' improbable run to the Eastern Conference Finals. Cigars and brandy on the second floor. Skunks. Snowfall and gunshots. My damned computer. Spotlights. Scabs. Crawling through the mud. Texts. The irony/sadness of poring through a road atlas after so many years spent in one place.