Peoples come to my state (yes, it is My state now. I am a Georgia Cracker turned Florida Cracker. I will eternally move South. Nothing North entices me) and cannot believe sharks actually, you know, BITE people. Yes, they do.
The Bride was knocked on her ass by a bull shark last summer. Was wearing an ankle bracelet, against my admonitions. She's lucky he didn't mistake her for a shiner and take a bite out of her calf.
Many, many shark attacks in Florida, since records have been kept (1882). Only two fatalities, I think. One last week. The best surfing waves in Florida are at New Smyrna Beach. That is also the shark attack capital of the Universe. A nasty convergence of pooling sea, amenable to shark feeding, and a rip current that creates great surfing waves. Or something like that.
Come. Visit. Leave a limb. Iffen enough of you folks keep the hungry beasts satiated I may be able to do some surf fishing without fear of losing mine penis.
I've been remiss posting, yes, and yet I was thinking of Terry Southern tonight, he who wrote Candy in 1958, a wonderful bit of erotica (and a brilliant take on Voltaire's Candide), who also later wrote The Magic Christian, and I do believe the screenplay to Easy Rider. Fuck! That is an ouevre I'd kill for.
And I possibly have. Blackouts suck, if I may say so.
All this by way of saying I think Mr. MacFarland thinks I suck, bad. He don't get me.
I took three impromptu vacation days this week, and what do you suppose I did? Fly to New York for a couple of nights? Catch that hopper from Daytona Beach to Freeport? Drink heavily with the diviners, palmists, and soothsayers in Cassadaga?
Fuck No!
I worked like a galley slave at the Velocihovel, yoked like a damnable yak to a rusted plow blade.
I pressure washed the house, which included climbing onto a 1400 degree (Fahrenheit) roof to spray bleach on mildewed eaves (and yes, there is always the errant shot to the eyes, which wraparounds only partially deflect. I HATE being blind thirty feet up on the edge of a roof!). I tiled the kids' bathroom, which included yanking a fucking terlit and reseating it. I patched various sheetrock punctures my younger daughter incurred, usually just prior to claiming she has no temper. I changed the burned out bulbs in the 12 foot ceilings, they being 3 years done. I replaced rotted wood on outside window frames to keep the insidious termites out. There's more, but the point be taken.
I don't deserve this, but neglect is neglect. God damn. I shall go to work tomorrow, put up with cretinous bosses and an imploding organization, and ignore those 300 e-mails, throw my feet on my desk, and think This is the life!
Because I look bad in choke collar, harness, bit. I chafe at bits, bridle at bridles, denounce the spur.
But there is a lesson here, my fellow slackers: incrementalism is a good thing. Fucking off all weekend on the blogs for a year has repercussions. Nasty repercussions.
I finally started my novel. This is number six. It is fucking brilliant! Well, as brilliant as 80 words can be, which in my case is pretty fucking brilliant.
I like this character already. I want to get him laid, and killed. Not necessarily in that order.
I love it when a thing comes together. Or unravels, as the case may be. I'm missing some synapses, by the way. Will pay handsomely upon their return.
Acid farts. Ever get seriously noxious gas from LSD? That's a weird sensation. Especially when you're too paranoid to roll down the window, much less get out of the car. It can be positively lethal.
I saw Peter Tosh at the Agora Ballroom in, like, 1981. The Legalize It tour. The crowd was all geeky white kids, smoking matchstick sized flashes. Near the end of the show Peter came out with a spliff the size of a megaphone, and toked like a fiend. It was very humbling, and we snuffed our flashes before the Master.
Why do you suppose Deadheads would listen to Hot Tuna, but nothing else? It was if they were saying See? We tolerate diversity. We're allowing Hot Tuna to be played. Yeah, you knew when Watch the North Wind Rise came on, el cid was wearing off, and it was time to grab a couple of hours sleep, populated by terrifying dreams.
Here's a weird post. Have no idea what was going through my mind here. But, more importantly, free content! Suck it up.
I finally heard from Queenie. She being a circumspect gal, she had my number, I did not have hers. She is fine, of course. Working that fine tushie off. Nose to the grindstone stuff.
Here a slice of life for you:
1971: Me and my little brother were in Humphrey's Grocery, a piece of shit convenience store in Bluffton, South Carolina. Mr. Humphrey was in poor spirits, his 13 year old being a cretin, ruining the inventory, his older son Johnny having just been whacked in Vietnam.
A Pissed Old Man. Counter: A small black child, needing his Daddy gum, and me and my bro. Mr. Humphrey had decided to shine this black kid, maybe 9, and refused to serve him, so the poor child decided to tap his coin on the counter, delicately, just to see if the old man was still alive.
DON'T YOU FUCKING TAP YOUR MONEY ON MY COUNTER, YOU LITTLE NIGGER! we heard. Fuck! That was harsh. That child fled, in tears. Bought my baseball cards, never visited that crazy fucker again.
He destroyed that child. Via word, or utterance, he destroyed that child, one way or another. Welcome to the Olde South. We did that shit. Well, I didn't.