When my father died, he had seven boats. No, he wasn’t an international shipping mogul. He merely liked to fish. But…
But, at some point, his interest in boats superseded the interest in fishing. When you drive past someone on a bridge with a line in the water, you know that person likes to fish. When you drive past a yard with seven boats lined up, you know that person likes boats, and maybe they go fishing.
He absolutely liked to fish. However, the Second Law of Thermodynamics got the better of him, and fishing didn’t happen as much as he wanted despite having all those boats.
I cherish the times I got to fish with Dad. For years, it was in a tiny aluminum boat that risked capsizing if all of us—my dad, my brothers, and I—were on board. But we never did flip over, and fishing trips meant peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and warm pop.
That was my kind of a fishing excursion.
Later in life, when he retired from the salt mine, he bought a (used) twenty-six foot fishing boat with a big, inboard/outboard motor and rigging to troll six lines at once. It was a fun ride but, on the third voyage, the rudder fell off and it needed repair. To wit, the Second Law of Thermodynamics covers entropy:
In a natural system, the usable energy decreases, and chaos increases.
My brothers and I were off on our own at that time and once he got that big boat back from the repair shop, he had to deal with it himself: towing the big boat, launching the big boat, and docking the big boat was a two-person enterprise. It became just a bit too much for him to handle. While contemplating how to deal with it, he parked the big boat in front of his little cottage on Sandusky Bay, and there the big boat stayed.
Fast forward a decade, and a family of raccoons had moved into the boat, laying claim to it. It fell to my brother and me to clean it out. Not only did the little bastards tear apart every soft surface from bow to stern, but they resurfaced the boat’s interior with a one-inch layer of shit.
I’d like to point out that it was likely raccoon shit inside the boat. Moreover, it was probably their own. I don’t think the raccoons went around gathering other kinds of shit and bringing it back to the boat, but it crossed my mind simply because of the sheer volume of shit we scraped from inside that boat.
Why did we bother cleaning it out?
We had some fanciful thought that the boat could be restored, either to use ourselves or maybe sell it. By the time we scraped it clean, the restoration work was beyond our abilities, and we donated it to some charity. Ironically, the charity was a raccoon sanctuary, but a tax break is a tax break so what the hell.
A few weeks ago, that same brother had another encounter with raccoons. A family had taken up residence under the shed in his backyard. It was a frustrating experience and he hired a professional to trap them. It put me on edge, reminding me of the boat. I dreamed of being in irons on a boat overflowing with raccoon shit.
Last week, when I should have been writing this Picayune, something took up residence under my shed. My dogs were obsessed, and my concerns pivoted because one of my dogs, ‘lil Mikey Bloomberg, is a toy poodle who thinks he’s a rat terrier. When there is small game in the yard (think chipmunks, rabbits, and squirrels) he is relentless.
That dog is so relentless that we wrote a song in his honor:
Chipmunk Patrol! Chipmunk Patrol!
Look out chipmunks we are ready to roll!
I’m not saying it’s a great song, only that this dog can’t not chase small game in the yard, foregoing all other temptations, and we were moved to write a ballad in to glorify his bravery and honor.
When we write the next verse, it may cover the Battle of the Butterfly Garden, which took place just two weeks ago, when ‘lil Mikey Bloomberg discovered a rabbit warren, and he single-handedly dragged four baby bunnies out of their nest. It’s really more of a war crime, so I’m not sure how to mold that into a song of bravery and honor. Let’s just say I’m workshopping that part.
Last year, when some critter took up residence under my shed, ‘lil Mike excavated under the shed in pursuit. Unfortunately, ‘lil Mike became trapped, and I had to tear up the floor of the shed to rescue him. (If you’re keeping score at home, that was entropy at work.)
So this year, as he obsessively paced and barked at the shed, I realized I should have shored up the foundation last year.
It put me into a scramble because we were traveling over the upcoming weekend, and I obsessed with worry about having to ask a friend to come tear up the shed’s flooring again to rescue the dog for the house sitter. My friend would likely have done it, but I’d rather save the “favor ask” for the next time I’m stranded at O’Hare, or if I need to be bailed out of the drunk tank.
I visited the local building supply store (Lowes, if you want to know which) and dropped a few hundred dollars on some fencing, cement pavers, and Peanut M&Ms (the Peanut M&Ms were for me, not the shed).
I spent a few hours that evening installing the fencing below grade around the shed, filling in the spaces with sand and gravel, then putting down a layer of cement pavers. Also, I ate Peanut M&Ms.
I was proud of that work. I should have done it a year ago, but now it’s done.
Lest you think I’m a jerk for not sharing my backyard with creatures great and small, the dogs are restricted to a fenced-in area, and there is habitat aplenty in the remaining yard. The rabbits can (and do) make lots of babies over there. The raccoons can shit all they want.
In summation, the Second Law of Thermodynamics states that the total entropy of a closed system increases over time. That means I have to work pretty hard to deal with encroaching chaos in the fenced-in area of our yard.
Said another way, if you park a boat and leave it alone for ten years, a family of raccoons will board the boat, tear apart the interior, and shit all over it.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk
I finished a draft of my next novel last week. That’s a big deal for me. This was a novel I finished early in 2024, shared it with select readers, and got feedback such as, “You should change the title to ‘Hard to Read’ because this was really hard to read.”
Harsh, but helpful. It sent me back to my writing desk and, after I licked my wounds and ate a lot of Peanut M&Ms, I re-imagined the story.
The new revision is awesome. You’re going to love it.
Next Picayune
I hope the Epstein Files are fully disclosed to the public soon. It doesn’t have to be by the time I write a Picayune next week, but it should be soon. I’ve offered to put ‘lil Mikey Bloomberg on the case, but the DoJ hasn’t responded yet.
Thanks for reading my picayune!
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. Order my book!