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"Balmy," you couldn't exactly call it... but, just a little less whithering chill was like a shot in the arm, a fire in the drawlz. Hell, just the chance to bet back outdoors was medicine enough for my narrow ass. This cocooning phase, two-sweaters and two-pairs-of-socks, has just been crap. The obession with conservation of body heat just seems to turn off all of my ambition, except for operating the remote and unhinging my arm to lift beer to my lips. What transpired: �Scheduling an analysis of the property with a "water witch"... yep, I'm going to get a dowser to divine where to place the well on the mountain. �Haircut. Swiftly dispatched, without hassle or smart comments about the dreadlock. �Some beer supply shopping at the Mennonite store (and polite conversation with a NJ lady), followed by a nice two-seater dash through the twisties. �Poking and prodding through the Miata: fixing windscreen washers, remounting floppy alarm relay, discovering the cause for shitty sound (rotted speaker cones), and digging out a pound of craft beads from under the carpet in the boot. �Great day to be on the other side of the radio station signal. As is said... Give Thanks. On a disturbing conspiracy theory note... Reading Fast Food Nation has not been conducive to ignoring what I put into my mouth. To whit, the simple cookie. A staple of my diet (forced to savor sweets in my youth, by my Grandmother), I never considered the sinister aspect of embossed graphics and their questionable subliminal messages. Yes, the seemlingly innocent EL Fudge (perhaps the name should have been the giveaway)... wears the cheekless chaps made famous by David L** R0th? What would Falwell say?
Talk about a fire in the drawlz! |
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