“Soft smelterlights advanced upon the metal of the harness, lights ran blue and liquid on the barrels of the guns.”
Likely no surprise to anyone who scans my height of ridiculousness maundering: taking showers with your cowboy hat on is demonstrably better than without.
It appears I will be in London earlyish to mid-September. I can and will be dancing Latin-style in any and all places I imbibe, and have been known to drink too much. I’m not bringing my kilt, I am in fact traveling with only a carry-on. Double-front Carharrts. steel-toed Docs, a stack of metaphysics books, and a cowboy hat. Say ‘Hola’ if’n you like.
I am uncertain how to resolve the greasemonkey, redneck, effete bastard, and utter geek within me. They’re intertwined and intermixed, and I like it.
Unpaid IT work > paid IT work in that one doesn’t have to listen to users. I’ve spent four days building up machines and tweaking them for performance, recovering data off of crashed systems, and enjoying the flexibility of non-Windows, non-Mac systems.
‘They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote.’
I am an oddity. The house in Tender Mercies looks a lot like like Heaven. The trailer, too.
O, Bodhi Linux, you are fucking saucy.
SMS to my cool-arse woman friend: I want to fly a kite and have snacks soon.
True American? Having some personal time in the commode at a local honky tonk, and nearly crippled by my lack of hammer or pistole.
Wisdom: always wear a shirt when working in the basement. This is assuming that it’s the basement of an old building.
I would give up 50% of the conversations I have in order to have access to exploded-view or technical diagrams of everything that interests me. Today, I found, and used, such a diagram when function-checking a 1951 Winchester Model 70 Featherweight. The sear spring seems to have less tension than it should, the safety is stiff, and the trigger is set too light, I think. The diagram made it...
Factory farming really takes away the social, political and cultural avenues of cattle-raiding.
I am deliberately becoming more relativist in thought and speech. I have also decided I need a 12-gauge just for the car. Pigeon-hole me with that, says I.
In my immaturity, I have found myself purposefully and often using the phrase ‘invisible children-cum-child soldiers,’ mostly because of the immediate pricking of ears upon mention of children, but equally because of the strong likelihood for reaction based on ‘cum.’ That is to say the predilection for assuming use as verb or noun rather than conjunction or preposition. The...
I would considering killing for a grass-fed air-dried bison steak. Not that the former is exactly a surprise.
With warwoolffs and wild cates my weird be to wander…
Holy. Fuck. Prometheus.
Fuck, Ray Bradbury has passed away.
After 10 hours of manual labor, a man’s mind is on pickled herring and hard cider. At least, mine is, and that is my sole concern for the moment.
Wet-wiring is so strange. The farmdog could play fetch all day.
Lunch: two almond meal griddle cakes and a mango. Man-purse packed with a liter of water, a liter of sweet black tea. Hands: cut the flaps of dermis off of the blisters, fuck it, they’ll dry and heal. One cowboy hat, one pound pouch of sweet and smoky tobacco. 1911A1 tucked up tight on my right hip. Out the door to the farm.
Holy fuck, the RZA is the fucking heat in Repo Men.