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Between yesterday and today, I have employed every curse that I have learned in my stroll on this planet. It's my pressure-release valve... better to roast on the spit in the not-so-sweet bye-and-bye and not throw expensive tools into the greenery. Assuming the possibility of any bye-and-bye, sweet or otherwise. There are those that think I'm cheap (I am a "Scott," after all), relying on myself for off-the-wall tasks. Challenges... that's what they are. If someone can put two things together with their hands, I figure it can be done again... even by me. So, the weekend vaporized, from the vantage point of the back yard, where the sleeping sportcars lie. A few weeks ago, the Miata's cloth top ripped in a most irreparable way... the cold rain on the back of the neck way, with the rear window zipped up. Not the pleasant experience hoped for. So, the bank acount (and the internet) was raided for a replacement and procedures... for a first try at installing a ragtop. Not for the weak. It did nothing for keeping up with this diary. Feeling my way as I went, losing shit, misplacing shit, redoing shit... this was a fine excercise in swearing, not necesessarily creativity. But it's done. Toplessness, restored. Plus, I got to keep the 300+ dollars it would have taken for someone else to do it.
On Friday, I wrote that the scent of locust trees was one thing... I've changed my mind. Circled by nature's perfume factory for two days... they smell just like: grape kool-aid. To the tenth power. Everything's powdered with the stuff... when it rains, I expect it to be purple. That same day, there was a buzz at the station about one of the promos for the Folk marathon. A tongue-in-cheek southern-twanged spot was made by one of the ladies in the office (from Memphis, a thespian), that was really quite funny... an authentic. So it should have been. This is rightfully called "the south," here. Yes, some of us have accents. EVERYBODY has an accent, everywhere. But someone in the listening audience was offended enough to write a three-page letter, wailing about southern stereotypes. Jesu. Get over your self. Another incident, a few years ago, occured when a DJ (jewish) played a jewish performer, not saying nice things about his own tribe. The complaint came from... someone of arabic descent. Peeeo-ple... What we have here is an irony deficiency. |
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