there's someone singing nearby, but it's loud and tuneless. However one appreciates the effort.
My brother gets drunk, then becomes sentimental, then calls me and wants me to go up in the desert and shoot his guns with him.
Also we end up talking about what we did when we were kids. A lot of running around in the woods, diving into the ocean, catching things to eat and behaving like a couple of scoundrels.
Beer, whisky, cocaine, pot, dirt roads, lucky shots, tough breaks, girls left wondering what happened; the usual stuff for where we grew up.
Sadly, that world is about gone.
We can go home once in a while and visit with the folks but everyone's tired and sad and worn out from abusing themselves, plus the town is in the hands of capitalistic bastards and the woods around it are choked with dust and beer cans.
Not only that, but it's hard to resurrect that careless youthful interest in things once you've spent a few years as a factory tool. or, like me, as a renegade in the incestuous world of poets and academics.
What's really important is how many clay pigeons I can hit, out of the box in the back of his pickup.
Last night he e-mailed me, saying "The abalone rise to Ceasar."
I told one of my friends, a poet, about this and the poetry of the line was lost on him.
The beauty and tradegy and humor of it meant nothing to him.
I hereby renounce my association with such dullards.
My brother gets drunk, then becomes sentimental, then calls me and wants me to go up in the desert and shoot his guns with him.
Also we end up talking about what we did when we were kids. A lot of running around in the woods, diving into the ocean, catching things to eat and behaving like a couple of scoundrels.
Beer, whisky, cocaine, pot, dirt roads, lucky shots, tough breaks, girls left wondering what happened; the usual stuff for where we grew up.
Sadly, that world is about gone.
We can go home once in a while and visit with the folks but everyone's tired and sad and worn out from abusing themselves, plus the town is in the hands of capitalistic bastards and the woods around it are choked with dust and beer cans.
Not only that, but it's hard to resurrect that careless youthful interest in things once you've spent a few years as a factory tool. or, like me, as a renegade in the incestuous world of poets and academics.
What's really important is how many clay pigeons I can hit, out of the box in the back of his pickup.
Last night he e-mailed me, saying "The abalone rise to Ceasar."
I told one of my friends, a poet, about this and the poetry of the line was lost on him.
The beauty and tradegy and humor of it meant nothing to him.
I hereby renounce my association with such dullards.
gogobongo:
Johnny, re: suzy_kabloozy comment. The peel and iron t-shirt tranfers are good but you have to make sure they are the ones for dark shirts where you peel off the print and iron it onto the shirt. The peel off the shirt kind don't work worth a damn. Even on white shirts get the ones for dark shirts. You don't have to flip the image or anything. Then just wash them inside out in cold and they should last two years or so. They will fade and some will crackle but that makes it look cooler... up to a point. hope that helps. oh, you can get them at micro center or any computer store.