Thursday, January 29, 2015
Alabama is a long state north to south. I jumped off the superslab around Greenville and drove county roads the rest of the way. Woods and hills in the north give way to empty fields where cotton once grew, then further south to lumber plantations thinly dotted with corrugated shacks and decaying automobiles, the side ditches empty save the carcasses of sharp-boned roadkill dried and blackened on the rough pavement, eyes wide open and seeing nothing.
Had to stop for a band of grim-faced men in rusted pickups probing the underbrush with sharpened sticks, and bloodlust. Their truck beds bore packs of caged hounds, red-eyed and ravenous, their slatted ribs showing through thin and scarred hides, eager for the hunt. I drove on.
We stopped at a roadside campground on the Alabama/Florida border and set up for the night. After a sparse meal of Shredded Wheat and black beans, with the sun sinking fast, we took a short walk and came upon a melancholy woman with a floppy hat, smiling pleasantly as she drowned a man with harsh words and rhetoric in a state-run swimming hole. He floundered and gasped for breath. Sputnik kept walking, and so did I, leaving only the squirrels and night creatures to bear witness.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Sputnik knows long before I do that a journey is imminent with that unearthly canine intuition we mere mortals can never comprehend. Days before our departure she’d leap into the truck’s open door and stubbornly refuse to exit. She must be coerced and cajoled with veiled threats of violence and promises of dog biscuits and cheddar cheese. Hooked up and loaded the Gypsy Pod and was ready for takeoff Saturday morning. The weather was moderate, unlike the poor conditions during last year’s southern migration.
Trailing the Pod on my tiny pickup and traveling at interstate speed is similar to towing an obstinate, tethered parachute like the one used to stop the space shuttle during landing. Doesn’t do well up hills or into a headwind. Maybe a truck cap would help streamline its overall aerodynamic properties, but right now ten mpg is as good as I can get.
The landscape in Kentucky was frosted with a fresh coat of benign snow, but the roads were fine, and we made our way to a cold little campground of I-65 just north of Nashville. They placed me in the back row with the rear of the camper about one-hundred feet from the interstate. I fell asleep to the sound of the nightime highway, which is among the loneliest sounds on earth, and also a favorite of mine.
The siren song of the highway is the sound of restless movement, commerce and flight. Bleary-eyed, high-ballin’ truckers with doctored logbooks trying to avoid the twenty second nap that will end their run, or worse. Desperate families, their meager possessions piled high in the back seat of ancient Chevys, hoping the next town will bring them employment. Undocumented migrants and drug runners crowded into mini-vans and non-descript Buicks flying under the radar and hoping their secrets go unjudged before they make their destination.
After a decent night’s sleep I batten down the hatches, pull up the landing gear and power up the on-ramp as I join the others on Amërïkä’s endless, infrastructural, asphalt bloodstream as I move ever Southward.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Been slacking on the blog of late and gripped in another Midwest winter. The hibernating bikes are crowded into the shop so my tired, old diesel skid loader can benefit from the heated motorcycle garage if called upon, with just a short blast of ether, to perform snow removal duty.
The chopper project sits shrouded in rags and ninety-five percent complete waiting on funding and motivation.
This winter has been rather pleasant compared to last, with many days above freezing but Sputnik and I have been planning a mobile hovel run south nevertheless.
Monday, October 20, 2014
When the weather turns foul a young man's fancy turns to tinkering, so work finally resumed on the justanotherevosporty project. I mounted the poorly painted fender and tanks and cut down some shotgun pipes in preparation for some exhaust tips which are on the way.
Felt good to get back in the shop. This thing may actually come off the lift sometime soon.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
The Dollar General Store, (not to be confused with General Dollar, The Dollar Store, Dollar Tree or Family Dollar) is at the very epicenter of commerce in Jerkwater, USA. The product line ranges from food and over-the-counter medicines to clothing and furniture. With its plethora of substandard merchandise and sidewalk bargains no self-respecting hillbilly need visit Kroeger, Walgreens or The Gap.
Step inside and you're hit with the smell of poverty, EBT cards and artificial cleanliness. I once purchased a can of “Fish Steaks” for fifty cents. It was horrible, and the fact that the type of “fish” isn’t labeled makes one suspect. I have to wonder how they can catch, can and ship a product from the ocean, (I assume) all the way to Jerkwater for fifty cents when a bottle of freakin’ water is a buck and a half.
Then, I figured it out. I'm eating bait.
Could be worse though……
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
After repeated duck egg theft I endeavored to put an end to the robbery. The ducks themselves were picked off one by one, and the sole survivor had been mangled fairly severely, but recovered. I had lost a few chickens as well, and suspecting ‘coons I set the live catch trap and baited it with cheap Dollar Store cat food. After several nights with no luck I had all but given up when I caught a red fox. Foxes are usually hard to trap, particularly in a live catch, but this was a spring born pup and he paid the price for his inexperience.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Pictured are two nearly identical Teflon pans. The one on the right is about twelve years old, on the left, a brand new one. One might ask regarding the pan on the right, where did all the Teflon go? Sadly, the answer becomes quite clear when simple physics and basic logic are applied. There's only one place it could be. All that Teflon was ingested by me over the course of years, subtly seasoning my fried eggs, and sausage with its deadly contaminant.
Fragments of this insidious material are lodged within my body, doing incremental damage to internal organs every day. Or possibly, a legion of tiny, synthetic fluoropolymer (had to Google that) particles wait in the deep recesses of the digestive tract preparing to enter my bloodstream, and mount a full frontal assault on my central nervous system.
Maybe it already has, which might explain the tremors, drooling and some other things.
Oh Teflon, with your flowery promises of non-stick cooking and easy clean-up, you are a wicked deceiver!
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Always had an affinity for hogs, both two-wheeled and four-legged. When I was a young, too poor to afford the two-wheeled variety, man raising a family on a meager income I always raised and butchered a few hogs for the freezer.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Sometimes I fancy myself a Nigerian Princess sitting upon a throne of jackal skeletons and wearing a flowing robe of stone-washed Cape buffalo hides. There'd be be eleven pigmy house servants hand-feeding me seedless grapes and a pair of matched hyenas tethered to my bedpost. Balanced upon my regal head would be a five-gallon bucket of latex house paint and a pasta strainer, because my posture would be impeccable and my nipples in a constant state of stimulated readiness.
Sometimes, on the other hand, I just sit alone in the dark, drinking warm beer, and wondering if I left my phone in the truck.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Some rapper cuts off his penis; blames demons
Demons can be real motherfuckers. Demons force us to live in crowded, greasy communities rife with abandoned automobiles and bacteria. They make us to eat fried foods and inhale the toxic fumes of dry-wrapped vegetation. They weaken us with fermented grain and whisper sweet sonnets of lust into our ears, then deliver stinging urination and open genital warts. They gently subvert us into identical vinyl-clad boxes over a stinking labyrinth of subterranean rivers which run red with the blood of Juicy Juice and bloody feces. They will compel us to eat an entire package of Fig Newtons when a single serving would meet the daily nutritional requirements. Yes, demons are a disruptive nuisance, but we learn to live with them.
But, when your demons instruct you to sever your wang and jump off a two-story building, it’s time to get some new demons.
Just one man’s opinion.