Sunday, August 13, 2006
new homeowner blog, part 1
Well my dear reader, as you will doubtless recall, I spent the past month "sin internet", if you will.
True, quite true, but that did not mean that I lived without my muse.
What follows is the first in a series of transcriptions from my mental ramblings over the past month which merited the tenacity to make me actually grab a pen and for gah'sakes just write some damn thing down.
Over the course of the next few weeks there will doubtless be others. Enjoy. . .
_______________
Saturday. 9:45 am. 7/15/06
Beware the Ides of July? Nah. . .
As you enjoy and read these words my dear reader, please beware that they were written old school, sans technology con papel y pluma, or something like that. So I am only marginally responsible for their content. Be warned. . .
I sit outside, listening to Fred, to, for, and by the Kids in America, woh-oh.
In my brand fucking new backyard!
I belch. I fart. I scratch my balls and say "fuck".
Indeed, my dear reader, I am quite The Man. Or such is how I feel on this fine morning.
I kick back and discretely enjoy a tall cold Star, discretely poured into a plastic cup so as not to offend any new and unknown neighbor with the unpleasant site of me. . .
"There's some damned bearded hippie sucking down beer before noon on a Saturday. Shit Marge, there goes the neighborhood."
I go inside to refesh my cup. I observe my family begin to stir and rise.
Lots to do. . . It's a beautiful day.
|
True, quite true, but that did not mean that I lived without my muse.
What follows is the first in a series of transcriptions from my mental ramblings over the past month which merited the tenacity to make me actually grab a pen and for gah'sakes just write some damn thing down.
Over the course of the next few weeks there will doubtless be others. Enjoy. . .
_______________
Saturday. 9:45 am. 7/15/06
Beware the Ides of July? Nah. . .
As you enjoy and read these words my dear reader, please beware that they were written old school, sans technology con papel y pluma, or something like that. So I am only marginally responsible for their content. Be warned. . .
I sit outside, listening to Fred, to, for, and by the Kids in America, woh-oh.
In my brand fucking new backyard!
I belch. I fart. I scratch my balls and say "fuck".
Indeed, my dear reader, I am quite The Man. Or such is how I feel on this fine morning.
I kick back and discretely enjoy a tall cold Star, discretely poured into a plastic cup so as not to offend any new and unknown neighbor with the unpleasant site of me. . .
"There's some damned bearded hippie sucking down beer before noon on a Saturday. Shit Marge, there goes the neighborhood."
I go inside to refesh my cup. I observe my family begin to stir and rise.
Lots to do. . . It's a beautiful day.
|
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