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A day that seemed to last three... opening with the 84-mile drive through the tunnel of night. Punctuated by mental snapshots of truck taillights backlit by obscured headlamps, showers of hot gold glints trailing from a dragged chain like fourth-of-July sparklers. Odors, as well... throat-choking soot of spent diesel breath. Plus, it must have been Designated Skunk Suicide Night. Black-and-White-and-giblets-and-ooze painted across the blacktop. What a fragrance, hanging in the air like a mist. A funky one. If I ever develop a StankBomb�, it'll be based on the power of the skunk. Part ammonia, coffee, onion and vinegar. Drop you to your knees. TCB... for the rest. Walk in the woods. Giving computer lessons. The Post. A trip to see the Sweetheart Of The Auto Parts (that song will need some lap steel), resisting Mopar temptation... for now. Shoring up the waterfall tables... the ones with the Dance Of The Living Dead blue mirrored glass. Not an exaggeration. Peer into one of those things, and it's instant Adams Family Portrait. That Morticia was hot. Bagged some CDs and listened to more... for what may be my fare-the-well show (not the farewell), tomorrow. Jamaican Soul Sensations. The flavor of the day will make the push one way or another. Time for a regroup.
I Think She Likes Me, That's What I Think. |
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