There’s No Accounting for Taste

A year ago I wrote my most viewed post ever.  By a factor of ten, this post still dominates my stat counter.

What could it be, oh gentle reader, that has so captivated the small but deranged loyal following of The Dry Spot?

Was it my first, and probably worst “embarassing stuff about myself” story?

Or could it have been one of my harrowing tales of near death experiences?

Did the blogiverse favor one of my travleogues?

Maybe it was one of my tales of misspent youth.

It probably wasn’t one of my navel gazing moments or odes to my pets.

Nope, I’ll end the suspense (such that it is…)

My most viewed piece of writing ever was my bourbon and allergy medicine inspired “Ode to a Bradford Pear” from last spring before the late hard freeze killed most of the pretty foliage in a hundred mile blast radius around my backyard.

Apparently, the poem got picked up by a group of invasive horticultural species botanists who flooded it with link love and started a heated debate among that extremely passionate geeky community.  They reposted it to dozens of websites that had hundreds of comments about whether Bradfords were truly a parasite or not.  Next to nobody actually commented on the poem itself, except to point out that I was obviously not a professional scientist.


No shit, Sherlock.  I’m just a homeowner with allergies and an ear for the turn of a phrase who thinks it’s stupid to plant trees that explode at the first gust of a March wind.


4 Responses to There’s No Accounting for Taste

  1. Bigfella and I were having this discussion this very weekend after noting that my dad had removed all his 25-year-old Bradford Pears. We used to call it the State Tree of Brentwood — decorative, useless, short-sighted.

  2. cravensworld says:

    I sincerely hope that the trees that my town is planning on putting downtown are not these. Their blooms stink and they do fall apart in the wind.

  3. Lynnster says:

    Huh. And those are some ugly trees, mon.

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