The other day, walking out of the office on the way to the harbor for a race, I got the first sense of summer: a mixture of cut grass, blossoms, and what may have been a dead rat. It could have been a pigeon--I didn't actually see it, but it was definitely dead. Ahhhh, the sweet smell of decay! As I passed a driveway where a kid was washing his car, I inhaled that particularly lazy scent of steam and dust rising up off the asphalt, and knew that summer was on its way. Which is hardly news: Look at a calendar, dumbass, you're saying, pointing to the date and smirking like you're the cleverest person on earth since Voltaire.

Today I am feeling a specific kind of summer, notably the feeling of having held my breath to swim the length of a pool, and finally surfaced, gasping and wiping my eyes. The feeling is misleading, though, and comes not from leisure but from illness. Since Friday, I've been knocked down with the Flu of the Damned, and today--Tuesday, at about 9:00 p.m., PST--is the first time I feel like I can breathe without the aid of several respirators and a scantily clad assistant.

I think the assistant was part of my fever-induced reverie, which included many important and premonitory dreams (I will contact those of you individually for whom I received messages, but in general, the rest of you shouldn't ride elevators or wear sweaters with buttons for the next six to eight days).

I had to get out of bed today, slightly against my will, in order to drive up the coast to the Magic Cottage, where I'm dog-sitting the Mischief Twins--two identical black scottie dogs with varying degrees of agenda as regards weeing on things. It was good for me to get up, although by the time I got here and took the dogs for a walk, I was ready for a drink.

Lucy, the dogs' owner, had left me a note telling me that there was Thera-Flu and Wild Turkey, and a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge, but I had a sudden craving for a vodka and tonic. I got out a lovely little crystal juice glass etched with a tracing of grapes. Finding no tonic, and bitter because a) I am always bitter and b) because I could almost taste the quinine, I wanted it so badly, I rifled the fridge and found instead a grapefruit, which I squeezed into the juice glass. I got ice from the freezer and pulled out the vodka bottle, behind which I found a bottle of limoncello.

I got a bigger glass, squeezed another grapefruit, added more ice, some limoncello, some seltzer, the juice from a tangerine, and just the slightest cup of vodka.

In short, things are looking up, and I'm raising this drink, which I'm going to call the First Kiss of Summer, to a toast in your honor. It's not even summer, that is how much I love you: I am planning ahead.

Now, do you know the rules of toasting? You must, when you clink glasses, meet the eyes of your toastee, or risk a year of bad sex. I don't make up the rules, I just pass them on and rigidly enforce them as I see fit. So, put that in your glass and clink it, friends. I sure will.

I can't wait to order this drink in a bar. First of all, it has a totally gay name, and second of all, its ingredients are pretty much unremembered by me, except for the vague description I've written here. Say it with me once:

"I'll have a First Kiss of Summer, please."

Ha ha ha! It sounds horrible, like you're in a Demi Moore movie from the '80s! I am totally going to order this, and then describe a really long and convoluted list of ingredients to the bartender ("zest from the peel of a bitter orange picked at the height of summer..."), until he tells me to shut up and makes me a Salty Dog, which is what I deserve. (And want.)

Damn.

So, tomorrow I'll be back at work, assuming I'm not canned for calling in sick two days in a row. Can they can me for actually being sick? I guess I'll find out! Whoo-hoo!

Anyway, I don't really care at this precise moment. My mind is on our upcoming sail to Catalina, beautiful island in the Pacific. Kent and Lydia are coming down in their boat, and we're meeting Loyal Dan and Darcy at Avalon. I'm looking forward to an actual vacation, like with red wine and Scrabble, and potato chips sitting there and guitars playing. I want to sit in the cockpit with my friends and scan passing boats for celebrities, drinking my First Kiss of Summer, laughing and maybe contemplating what color to paint my toenails. I might emulate Miss Hiss and go with turquoise. I'm very ready for a change of tune. Can you blame me?

No. You cannot.

So, a couple of P.S. notes that are important but unrelated to the previous text:

1. Mr. X: I had a dream that you and I went to see Indie Rock Queen at a wonderful bar at a mall, and her sound system wasn't working, but she retained a sense of humor and professionalism--as I'm certain she would in real life--and soldiered on. Also, you were drinking like, Brandy Alexanders or White Russians or something, which surprised me greatly. And also, I just listened to Van Dyke Parks in your honor.
2. Thursday is the Keelhauler's birthday, y'all! Everybody put on your party hats, because you just know there'll be singing.
3. London friends, go check out my pal the great painter Brett Cody Rogers who's having his first solo show at that gallery starting Wednesday, and who is a very cool guy, to boot.
4. I think that's about it. I'm about ready for another drink, and it's a damn shame you guys aren't here to help me mix one. That's all I'm saying.
5. Oh, and check out Calexico's new album, Garden Ruin.
6. And the lovely janegamma, about whom I've just learned, and whom I'm sure you will love, too.

P.S.

Happy birthday to Jonathan Richman. I forgot until just now (10:53 p.m., but it's not like he was waiting for my call), but maybe the subtext of his birthday was informing my summer feeling today, and my longing for more parties in the USA, and that sorta-sad feeling I just got, noticing that the neighbors' lights just went out. Yeah. I was channeling the information that it's Jonathan Richman's birthday. That makes total sense. Whew! Mystery solved. Now back to that First Kiss of Summer.

Star of the day. . .The Vivian Girls