How Shiny Is Too Shiny?
I'm just going to stay low and do nothing and watch the squirrels who can't fly fall slowly and drop dead. I can't tell if those boys out there shooting in my woods are boys I gave hunting rights to or if they is just some boys I don't know, with guns. I have to weigh what it is I really care about and much as I look I can't seem to find a single squirrel on that scale. I don't even know who it is I would be paying lip service to if I said something good about squirrels, or acted in some way sensitive to their immediate plight, which right this minute is them coming to terms with small gauge shotguns. From the sound of it though the squirrels are giving the boys a run for their money.
I thought I was just going to spruce up the sorry ass looking wood floors here in the Fence Post house but instead ended up renting a drum sander and sanding them all the way down to bare wood. And staining them and sealing them and now they are done and look nice.
Bernadette came down for a few days and worked with me but now she's gone. We stopped for barbecue between Hillsboro and Chapel Hill, yesterday on the way to the airport. It was delicious. The waitresses were kind of all business bossy though, in a way that did not seem at all affected. No one called me "hon" I guess is what I'm saying. I'm not saying they weren't friendly enough or that they weren't good at their jobs, because they were fine at it. It's just, well, no one called me hon. We had ribs, and flounder, and hush puppies, and cole slaw, and fried okra, and sweet potato pie.
As I stood behind a teenage girl counting her change several times in front of a very patient, almost encouraging cashier, one of the waitresses noticed Bernadette's red patent leather clogs and called the other waitress over, who admitted to having the shiny blue ones. The first waitress asked didn't Bernadette mind the shininess but the other waitress, the one with a pair of shiny blue ones at home, said that shiny was good. Bernadette just played it safe and said how comfortable they were, especially considering that they did not bend whatsoever. In the parking lot afterwards, we giggled because we thought it was funny that the one waitress was curious about the shininess of her shoes but did not have a single opinion about the bright orange and black camouflage jacket Bernadette was wearing.
I'm not really doing a damn thing today. If I do anything it might be bringing in the shop vac and sticking the flexible hose into the floor vent and fishing around for that rutabaga Bernadette dropped down there night before last. I am remembering how she fashioned her hands to describe the size of it when she explained that she had dropped a rutabaga (about so big) into the heating duct. Later, after she dropped a couple more things down there, we put a piece of wood over the opening. But I'll tell you one thing--the mashed and buttered rutabagas were good as all get out.
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This One Isn't
Werner Herzog so loved his little Dieter he made two films about him, one starring Dieter and the other starring Christian Bale as Dieter.
I have seen the former and was watching the latter when a rare thing happened. There was a knock at the door to my kitchen. I could narrow down the knocker's identity to one of very few people.
If I were in NY I would factor in the 67,000 people within my square mile and then deduct the 66,950 people it very likely could not be and then further deduct those that got buzzed in from the street without me being aware of it and then further those that might knock, which frankly would narrow it down to a similar number as to those that might knock in Rappahannock County, Virginia, with its 22 people per square mile, or Person County, North Carolina, with its 91 people per square mile, each of these places having doors that open, if not exactly into a kitchen, pretty darn close to it.
The preceding was me fleshing out with numbers another short tale, but one that has little to do with numbers of people and also little to do with the suspense suggested by the phrase, "a rare thing happened," or for that matter doors that open into kitchens. It has to do with numbers of squirrels. Not that I mean to determine ahead of time that a tale about squirrels cannot be suspenseful, but to ruin it for you--this one isn't.
I am in North Carolina and it was Johnny Woodman. I could have told you that from beginning but unlike Johnny Woodman,who got right to the point of asking could he come over here (here being across the road from his house) and shoot squirrels, I, haven't really decided how many words I wish to use regarding squirrels, Johnny Woodman, doors leading into kitchens, or rare things and population estimates.
The main thing is, we agreed we did not like possums and would only in the most dire of circumstances eat one. He said he might eat a rat before he ate a possum and I agreed, hesitantly, that I also might prefer rat to possum.
We talked about some squirrel recipes and I thought the one he wasn't sure of, the one that his grandma used to cook, sounded quite tasty and had me wishing he would kill and cook one sooner rather than later. I knew his grandmother. She lived in that house across the road when I was out here last, fifteen years ago. We used to talk. Or she did and I listened. I know some things about her. Nothing unseemly. It is not my intention to lead you on with promises of unseemliness. Its just funny how people say things and some of those things get stuck in your head forever.
Werner Herzog so loved his little Dieter he made two films about him, one starring Dieter and the other starring Christian Bale as Dieter.
I have seen the former and was watching the latter when a rare thing happened. There was a knock at the door to my kitchen. I could narrow down the knocker's identity to one of very few people.
If I were in NY I would factor in the 67,000 people within my square mile and then deduct the 66,950 people it very likely could not be and then further deduct those that got buzzed in from the street without me being aware of it and then further those that might knock, which frankly would narrow it down to a similar number as to those that might knock in Rappahannock County, Virginia, with its 22 people per square mile, or Person County, North Carolina, with its 91 people per square mile, each of these places having doors that open, if not exactly into a kitchen, pretty darn close to it.
The preceding was me fleshing out with numbers another short tale, but one that has little to do with numbers of people and also little to do with the suspense suggested by the phrase, "a rare thing happened," or for that matter doors that open into kitchens. It has to do with numbers of squirrels. Not that I mean to determine ahead of time that a tale about squirrels cannot be suspenseful, but to ruin it for you--this one isn't.
I am in North Carolina and it was Johnny Woodman. I could have told you that from beginning but unlike Johnny Woodman,who got right to the point of asking could he come over here (here being across the road from his house) and shoot squirrels, I, haven't really decided how many words I wish to use regarding squirrels, Johnny Woodman, doors leading into kitchens, or rare things and population estimates.
The main thing is, we agreed we did not like possums and would only in the most dire of circumstances eat one. He said he might eat a rat before he ate a possum and I agreed, hesitantly, that I also might prefer rat to possum.
We talked about some squirrel recipes and I thought the one he wasn't sure of, the one that his grandma used to cook, sounded quite tasty and had me wishing he would kill and cook one sooner rather than later. I knew his grandmother. She lived in that house across the road when I was out here last, fifteen years ago. We used to talk. Or she did and I listened. I know some things about her. Nothing unseemly. It is not my intention to lead you on with promises of unseemliness. Its just funny how people say things and some of those things get stuck in your head forever.
Dear Mr. President
By the end of it Mr. President I was so turned around I wasn't sure I would ever find my way. I was concerned, while driving around and around the beltway watching exit numbers get higher, and then inexplicably lower, that I might be the victim of map sabotage perpetrated by a disgruntled Google employee. "Good one, disgruntled employee", I was almost ready to concede, "there is no exit 176b." As it turns out though Mr. President, just on the other side of hopelessness there often lies small reward (there is an exit 176b). And even if that small reward is just a smear of potted meat on a failure sandwich, how can we not take consolation in that moment where out of darkness (a word describing my mood in traffic) appears light, however dim that light may be?
In response to the unprecedented mass of hysterical citizens you have inspired to join you on Jan. 20, an area commuter train service has decided, for one day only, to offer reserved seats in and out of Union Station, which is close to the end of your parade route, and the Capitol building in front of which you will be taking oath. Despite much conversation and planning regarding the many issues of inconvenience (road closures, parking restrictions, and 4 million competitors) surrounding our efforts to be part of your spectacle I, acting as agent for my party, decided to hand deliver my check and order form to the commuter train administrative office. I drove 70 miles to get there, plus an extra 40 driving back and forth on the beltway, before finding my exit. This offer was only available by mail and no calls were being accepted regarding status of orders, so I didn't bother calling about anything, which of course gives you the ending where the woman behind the desk says, '"it wouldn't be fair to the others." After which she told me there was a mailbox outside and that in her opinion (eagerly seconded by the bobbing head of her assistant), I was probably in time to at least be realistically considered as a contender for this last minute lottery for a pretty damn hot ticket. While driving those two and a half hours to hand deliver my order I had played out in my head the scenario of failure, but only briefly. The way it was going to end, I was sure, was with a wink and a nod and me being on the inside track. I suppose I should have seen that unlikely parking space in front of the building and the meter with the word "Fail" as omen.
I am for the time being Mr. President, going to buy into the simple-minded one word of your promise, and Hope that everything is going to be Cool and copacetic and that on a Tuesday not too far away I and 4 million of my closest friends will be able to easily hang with you under sunny skies on an unseasonably warm day.
To end sir, let me say that I know these efforts of mine are miniscule in comparison to what you have endured these last two years and will endure for at least the next four. Congratulations on your victory and may you have good luck dealing with what surely appears to be a messy inheritance.
By the end of it Mr. President I was so turned around I wasn't sure I would ever find my way. I was concerned, while driving around and around the beltway watching exit numbers get higher, and then inexplicably lower, that I might be the victim of map sabotage perpetrated by a disgruntled Google employee. "Good one, disgruntled employee", I was almost ready to concede, "there is no exit 176b." As it turns out though Mr. President, just on the other side of hopelessness there often lies small reward (there is an exit 176b). And even if that small reward is just a smear of potted meat on a failure sandwich, how can we not take consolation in that moment where out of darkness (a word describing my mood in traffic) appears light, however dim that light may be?
In response to the unprecedented mass of hysterical citizens you have inspired to join you on Jan. 20, an area commuter train service has decided, for one day only, to offer reserved seats in and out of Union Station, which is close to the end of your parade route, and the Capitol building in front of which you will be taking oath. Despite much conversation and planning regarding the many issues of inconvenience (road closures, parking restrictions, and 4 million competitors) surrounding our efforts to be part of your spectacle I, acting as agent for my party, decided to hand deliver my check and order form to the commuter train administrative office. I drove 70 miles to get there, plus an extra 40 driving back and forth on the beltway, before finding my exit. This offer was only available by mail and no calls were being accepted regarding status of orders, so I didn't bother calling about anything, which of course gives you the ending where the woman behind the desk says, '"it wouldn't be fair to the others." After which she told me there was a mailbox outside and that in her opinion (eagerly seconded by the bobbing head of her assistant), I was probably in time to at least be realistically considered as a contender for this last minute lottery for a pretty damn hot ticket. While driving those two and a half hours to hand deliver my order I had played out in my head the scenario of failure, but only briefly. The way it was going to end, I was sure, was with a wink and a nod and me being on the inside track. I suppose I should have seen that unlikely parking space in front of the building and the meter with the word "Fail" as omen.
I am for the time being Mr. President, going to buy into the simple-minded one word of your promise, and Hope that everything is going to be Cool and copacetic and that on a Tuesday not too far away I and 4 million of my closest friends will be able to easily hang with you under sunny skies on an unseasonably warm day.
To end sir, let me say that I know these efforts of mine are miniscule in comparison to what you have endured these last two years and will endure for at least the next four. Congratulations on your victory and may you have good luck dealing with what surely appears to be a messy inheritance.