Alp Concept Design - Motorcycles by Sungurtekin:... →
Fuck yeah, jockey shifter.
In a typical demonstration of my maturity, I am going to stitch hot pink high-viz reflective material along metacarpal III to the center distal on my roping/riding gloves. I like flipping poor drivers the bird.
From yesterday eve’s Ambien-fogged post, I have deduced that I like ginger-scented women.
60 ml jojoba oil blended with 8 drops ginger essential oil. Massage leaves one smelling like ginger beer. It warms my love’s skin and leaves her skin smelling fresh and spicy. I massage in trade for meals, poetry, drinking companionship. Much like I wrench for massage, tattoos, bourbon, excellent meals.
If you have the time, Shadows (Senki) is a film worth watching.
Cooler weather has me reading more Neruda. I call it a good thing.
Random: I am going back to washing with a washboard and bucket. I rinsed a few towels after using the washing machine, the amount of grey water that was expelled from each towel was impressive. More random: extruded nylon parallel rings. Mmmm.
From cider and charcuterie, my mind wanders to apple pie and coffee. I have yet to come up with a perfect no-flour pie crust, but buckwheat surely is figuring large.
Cleaning the wet hay out of the loft tomorrow, then doing a quick zero confirmation on the M4. Fine times.
Cooler nights, and my thoughts turn to cider and charcuterie.
Damn it, I want rabbit pan-fried in marrow. With parsnips and turnip greens.
Hating on the New Deal and the lack of responsibility it fostered. Defense and infrastructure, those are the federal government’s job. Saving for retirement is the individuals’. Jobs and healthcare are the states’.
I am of the mind that Netflix needs a ‘Tyler Perry can suck a fat baby’s cock’ rating for talentless schmaltz.
Not much of a storm by the time it reached here, but enough to wet everything so haying isn’t done yet.
I feel guilty about deleting Wounded Warrior Project email. I suppose I need to get over that.
Haying, it is that time of year again. Might could see me in a cowboy hat. I’ve packed up a traveling kit: a book of selected Neruda, the Remington 870, a little Beam family small batch liquid gold.
Hot redneck woman in a wheelchair. I am going to whatever passes for Hell.
Damn it, hanging turns on the longboard is nowhere near as good as on the bike…
Entia non sunt multiplicanda necessitatem. And I should be skateboarding with a nice cup of tea; I am loafing about in a contemplative mood.
6:30 in the morn seems a fine time to re-read the chapter on H-D 5-speed transmissions.
I am unreasonably excited about Lollipop Chainsaw.
5 in the morn. A fine time for Patsy Cline, coffee, and a long walk.
Edward Teller. ‘Conversations on the Dark Secrets of Physics.’ I like to see how dumb I am, now and again.
I cannot vouch for what women think, but the greasemonkey in me is convinced that kick-start only bikes are dead sexy.
And for the love of heaven do I need something savory to read. Yes, I am still reading At-Swim-Two-Birds, but it cannot last much longer.