Monthly Archive: December 2012

Dec 11

Blogging all my nowhere posts to nobody

Homespun text banter with the president of my ISP

My brain used to be a Size 10, but all that carrying-on in the 80s and 90s shriveled it down to about a Size 2. Thus it’s not uncommon for me to come down with blogular amnesia. By which I mean, I just completely forget I have a blog. Sometimes for days on end. I …

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Dec 08

Crone clenches fists, hollers “noooooo!”

With my love's picture then my eye doth feast.

There are many aspects of country life that remind me of a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And then there are those that flat-out shoot an electric current of unmitigated terror straight into my amygdala. Water is one of those. Damn you, water! There either isn’t any because of the drought, or …

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Dec 06

Deep thoughts

When pondering the episode of the dead turkey vulture in the driveway, it is difficult to avoid the central question: why aren’t there dead turkey vultures galore all over the place? I ask because the atmosphere above Dreadful Acres is pretty thick with these birds. Most days you can’t even see the sky for all …

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Dec 06

Crone posts heartwarming dog photo in lieu of essay

Last night it was 62 F outside so we had to have a fire or we would die. What’s that smell? The dog roasting. You literally have to pry my yella lab Franny away from a fire. She thinks she’s a suckling pig. Incidentally, if you ever find yourself in need a dog with a …

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Dec 04

Of cabin fever and deep-fried kale

No. 1 Quality deer-in-the-headlights iPhone food fotography: Verlasso salmon at Cafe Josie.

I got the heck off the farm last night. Whooo-wee! Away to Austin I did hie, to hook up with my erstwhile sidekick Stingray for a bite of dinner and a few glugs of the good stuff. And not a moment too soon. My cabin fever was reaching critical mass. After pulling hay out of …

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Dec 03

Chronic affliction blows crone’s lobe

Everything a crone needs to combat oozing lumpomas.

By the shaking jumping ghost of Jehosaphat (by which oath crones occasionally swear when they’ve already yagged out “god fucking dammit to hell are you fucking kidding me” about 67 times and are then inclined toward a brief, restful phase of ironic 19th-century folksiness), I tell you I can’t stand it another minute. By gum. …

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Dec 02

The tale of the infuriating handyman

Infuriating handyman emerges from some dreadful attic.

Winter. It shouldn’t be allowed. Sure, at the moment it’s 80 degrees and I’m flitting about the farm in a pair of sporty Bermudas, but then again it’s only December. An epic freeze of 35, 34, maybe even 32 degrees (the horror!) is in my future, and I shudder to think. See, there are about …

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