“Want some of this?!” I yell to my brother over the shaky din of the front-end loader as he hauls his Dickey-clad lower half toward a location on the family farm that will make him some money. I shake a bright orange can of mosquito repellent at him. He looks at me like I’m some sort of communist. “NO!” he shouts at me, shaking his head. It’s like I’ve suggested that he take out twenty…
I’m finally starting to tuck in to Jeanette Winterson’s newest novel, The Stone Gods. I don’t want to say too much about it yet because I’m just a couple dozen pages in, but a passage struck me last night with such force that I have to write it down here so I can mull it over and pose the question in the title to the universe. Winterson writes: Step into that water and you remember…
I’ve posted, like, a fabillion blog entries here today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought for sure this robot I programmed to “blog” for me while I vacationed in Latin America would keep it to one post a week, but clearly I got the coding all wrong and now R2Dumbass2 has gone all nutty and is just hitting “publish” on every stupid vignette. Anyway, I just nibbled off a thumbnail while trying…
The Nationwide insurance lady is coming over in a bit to give me money. Yes, this stupid saga is finally getting resolved (knock wood). Good old Nina B. from Spotslvania V. finally got her ass in gear and filed her accident claim with her insurance company (the aforementioned Nationwide) at the end of March. That’s a full three months after the accident, if you’re playing along at home. You might also recall that I had…
It’s not as bad as this, but it makes me wonder if there is an epidemic of church signs with questionable letter spacing. Which, yeah, obviously, I’m sure there is. I’m trying to figure out if there’s some play on words I’m not getting, or why the words would be arranged this way, and I’ve got nothing. All I know is that telling people they can come be apart of the church family isn’t a…
Holy hell, it got humid fast. I don’t care if “quickly” is preferred standard English grammar there or not. When you’re talking about humidity, you spit the words out and get it over with and then go back inside and take a bath in iced tea. Mmmm, iced tea. Anyway, I would like to sit and write and write about lots of different things, but my eyes are still dilated from the eye doctor this…
I notice that BetteDavisLies over at Complacencies of the Peignoir has a post up about strange encounters of late. (If you’re not already reading this blog, may I politely insist that you do so immediately? It’s good stuff.) I have an incomplete and unoriginal theory about the strangeness that periodically seeps through the linen-wrapped Southern spring and summer days: It’s all about the heat. We all go a little more nuts the higher the mercury…
Maybe I am dead. Because this is the first substantial stretch of time during the five years this blog has existed that there’s been nothing going on that I absolutely had to write about, even though there’s been plenty going on. It proves, at least for me, that blogging is strongly habitual and that if you truly devote yourself to the laziness within, it can overcome anything. All kidding aside, I’ve been a lazy piece…
I don’t know why I’m still up. Oh wait, yes I do. BECAUSE I AM A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT. And instead of packing and going to bed like any normal person about to fly down to Florida for a week of beachy funtimes and Radiohead, I’m uploading photos from the weekend to Flickr. And I haven’t even gotten to today’s MusicFest pictures. I guess they’ll have to wait until I get back Thursday and then…
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