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The third of June... another sleepy, dusty Delta day. We acknowledge Bobbie Gentry, patron saint of baby boom trailer trash. The essence of Sixties radio... bizarre. O' course, it was a lot more country than most of what is demographized as country now. And earthier. Plus, it was usually jammed between Beatles and Wilson Pickett, or some such... a segue that cannot happen on the radio anymore. Pity. Caught again. "Frank," our resident Klansman, has been on the warpath for malingerers this evening... which is funny since there's BUGGERALL to do from the minute I walked in here! Yes, the Migrant Worker to Ground Zero was trapped dead nuts with his hand on an errant mouse on company time. So... fuggit. Got a major case of redeye from hours of poring over other weblogs... like eating the proverbial potato chip. One, then another x10. Blast your entertaining hides. Yesterday sucked majorly. Actually, most of the weekend left plenty to be desired. Friday evening was OK... catching the France V. Senegal World Cup opener at the Gadfly of Guildford's house, sharing some excellent barbecue, several Modelo Especiales, and silly talk with he and his lovely bride (if ever there was a walking-talking Varga girl come to life, that she is). Lucky little wanker. Oh, there is the part about never being able to leave the country, 'cause he could never re-enter. Every silver lining has its cloud, I suppose. In the past, I have worked on being a peacemaker, or rather the voice of reason... standing in the middle of every conceivable domestic distrubance for as long as I can remember. Like when my brother (may he hopefully Rest In Peace) belted my oft-divorced mother. Her Sophia Loren/Marcello Mastroiani verbal thermonuclear wars with Bobby, her cousin (gay and bi-polar). Foster home survivor Dianne and her similarly fostered-out daughter. Etc., etc. Believe I'm losing my shit when it comes to keeping it together, personally. Funny how things mutate over the course of a marriage. Must've been wearing some rose-colored glasses when I thought that it was possible to have a relationship where we stand shoulder-to-shoulder ...turns out, she'd rather do like the Afghani women did. Covered from head-to-toe to hide from the rest of the world... ten steps behind me. Suddenly, her world view is 1952. Man makes all of the decisions. Pays all bills. does all of the driving. Goes to work. Wife stays at home, follows directions of husband. Not what I was looking forward to. This girl wants her dad and mom back... which I'm just not equipped to do. and I'm not them. I just see her retreat on a daily basis into this cocoon. On top of this, no sweet lovin' for months. Pretty soon, the boiler's going to bust, 'cause this old boy's got no pressure release valve. Well, mission accomplished. Twenty minutes to punch out, and another weep-and-wailfest in the books. Stay tuned for the biorhythmic rollercoaster ride, and see what tomorrow brings. Will he rock out of the rut? Or will he roll on down the highway? Speaking of the highway... don't neglect running your mouse across the representation of Edward Munch's "the Scream" in insects, to take an interesting trip across our Great Nation. America. Home of Giant Fiberglass Roadside Icons. Et Cetera. |
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