Here's the view from the back deck:
That may not look like much, but it's two acres of forest primeval. The vertical drop to the bottoms down thar is about 70 feet.
I couldn't reach the bottom at first because of the blackberry brambles, the saplings, and the poison ivy. My initial forays left me lacerated and bloody. I finally took the machete and loppers to about a third of the slope and cleared it, and blazed two trails. Way mo bettah. But it's already growing back.
You can't see it, but at the bottom is a dried up creekbed and an unfinished shed. We're going to get some pygmy goats to chomp the blackberries and poison ivy. They love that nasty shit, and can bunk in the shed. I need to fence in a patch for the little bastards first, though. Tomorrow, I swear.
It's tough going, this. For every patch of briars there's a patch of Carolina allspice you want to save. For every tulip poplar you fell you find a mulberry tree or dogwood you want to save. I'll let Key share the gardens, arbor, and walking trails we carved out of the side woods, Herculean tasks in their own right. That's her emotional investment. My emotional investment is being able to walk down to the pond without feeling like I'm being laser tagged from the canopy by the fucking Predator.
I also need to get a well digger out here. The creek ran underground with the drought to save itself. We want to bring it back up to the surface. If it isn't artesian we may have to install a pump, though. That would suck, but I want the damn creek back to fill the pond a little higher. Like Nature and Satan intended in the first place.
And then there's this tree. (That's the pond in the background.) It fell over in a windstorm over the winter. For perspective, that root ball is about the size of a Hummer. Fucking Ada. I may have to get some Michoacans to cut that bloody thing up. I don't have enough saws. The fucking dude in Saw doesn't have enough saws.
And did I mention I have job now? Yeah, I really should have been working on all of this shit before, instead of watching Looney Toons, drinking wine, and admiring the thrilling contours of my phallus. Not that that isn't a full time job, eh what? And I did work at reclaiming this property from Bwana Don and the Umbebwe tribe quite a bit over the last few months, but it's tough. Some days you just take a 30 by 30 patch and go to work, like the gulags. This will take a couple of years.
It'll be fun, though, he grinned through gritted teeth.
Not as much fun as admiring my phallus, but hell. What the fuck is? Case closed, I reckon.
Some fool down the road is trying to foist an old, tired Maverick on me. It's got a spunky V-8, but its best days are years ago. I don't trust this car. Smells like it has a trunk full of Mexicans. Looks like its grill was knocked in once and fixed, too.
Too expensive for my blood, for one thing. On the other hand, that two-tone Prius at the dealership will end up costing me three times as much money if I'm lucky.
Looks like I'm fucked either way.
Elder Covered Bridge, Watkinsville, Georgia
Splintery. Dry. Weatherbeaten. But enough about Madonna's ginch. What do you think about this bridge?
Personally, although I find covered bridges picturesque, I don't see the value proposition. To protect you from the rain? You're going to the other side, dickhead. It's not like there's a bar in there, or anything. No fucking loitering. Move on, son. Plus, highwaymen could hide in the rafters and bushwhack you. No thanks. I think covered bridges are bullshit, and it didn't take a novel or Clint Eastwood movie to convince me, either.
In fact, I should probably go burn that bridge down tomorrow. At least the covered part. To protect the strollers, naturists, dogwalkers, and queers out for a quick blow job. Instead of a highway patrolman, I could be a highwayman patrol.
It's all about safety, and risk management, to me. Those bridges are attractive nuisances, imperiling the clueless rubbernecker.
I took some extra pictures, just in case you Insipids like this sort of thing. We can peruse them at Helen, and I can tell you what a magnificent conflagration that bridge were. That way, I've done my safety duty, and yet we still have the pictures to look at. Like when the last Filipino who speaks Tagalog dies, crucified by his buddies some Easter, we can still listen to anthropology tapes, and marvel at what a crude and inscrutable language it was. Works for me.
The Alma Exchange Bank Drive-thru, circa 1962.
There's nothing like a space race to bring out the best in all walks of life. Even kitschy architecture. I miss the Soviet Union. I do. Without them we wouldn't have had the nerve or, dare I say it, the desire to create such aesthetic affrontery as the drive-thru branch of the Alma Exchange Bank.
I like those satellite rings. They look like some kind of chastity belt from Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. But of course they represent telecommunications satellites, orbiting the earth, beep-beep-beeping early warnings of Soviet ICBM launches. And, occasionally, television programs.
They even put a globe up on a space needle in front:
Looks like the Daily Planet headquarters. You know, I'll bet George Jetson banks here. And Spacely Sprockets has a commercial account. All this down in south Georgia, in a region even hobos disdain for lack of good dumpster diving.
When I was six years old and riding in the back seat of my mother's station wagon with a Mercury space helmet glued to my noggin I would have been absolutely fucking enthralled with that bank.
And I kind of still am.
Oh, it's not that bad. I don't actually live in Struggleville. But it's hard by, as they say in these parts. But who knows? I may be gainfully employed any day now, and my days of productive ennui will be dashed, just as I was getting adept at providing value via legerdemain.
Rising and shaving and reporting for duty? Now that's Struggleville, Insipids.
On a more somber note I was awakened the other night and told I was quacking like a duck in my sleep. I remember uttering the final quack as I roused from slumber, so I know I wasn't being made sport of, either. And no one pulls somebody's leg at four a.m. anyway.
Actually, here's a huge clue for you all, and I'm not charging for this: nobody has a fucking sense of humor at four a.m., so forget the leg-pulling theory.
The only thing I can think of, is, we were watching Wild at Heart the night before, and there's this scene in a bar in New Orleans, where this old guy in a straw hat is clucking like a chicken to show his appreciation for the singer at the Zanzibar. Or something like that. Doesn't make sense? It's David Lynch. You gotta work with him sometimes. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I was dreaming about that scene, and got my ducks and chickens mixed up. No harm no fowl. Sorry.
I think I made some U-boat noises, too, for what that's worth. You know, I didn't have all this trouble back when I was bad to drink. Slept like a fucking baby, I did.
Anyway, as long as I don't do the damn duck thing in a job interview I think I'll be okay.
Images today from Winder, Georgia, whilst panhandling for Change and Hope:
A magnificent bust of Sir Richard Brevard Russell, foyer of the Barrow County Courthouse. Patron saint of Unrepentant Velocibigots, and wicked folk who like apple butter on their toast.
A brilliant fresco by Marion Sanders, circa 1939. Now this is beautiful stuff. New Deal art, commissioned during the Depression and placed in post offices throughout the country so the Common Man could enjoy and appreciate it. Most of these commissions were murals; this was a bas relief. And gorgeous it is. Weighing Cotton, it's called. I'll tell you, though: Farmer Bohannon didn't give a fumping fuck about Weighing Cotton, or Art Deco. He just wanted his God damn relief check. The fey Ivy League marioneteers in Washington wanted Bohannon to enjoy Art, though, so there you are.
I'm also amazed at how closely New Deal art resembled Soviet and Nazi art. It's all propaganda art. Jonah Goldberg could tell you a lot more about that than me. But the stylization, the Deco, the exploitative themes, gudammumighty.
Of course, Roosevelt and Stalin and Hitler were very grudging fans of each other, but can you imagine the envy Hitler and Stalin felt for Roosevelt? Sure, Stalin could persecute the kulaks and Cossacks and peasants, and Hitler could persecute the Jews and queers and Gypsies, but Roosevelt? Imagine Hitler, pissed that that fucking Roosevelt didn't take the whip to those fucking schvartzes! Oh, what he could have done! He just didn't realize that Roosevelt was taking long cool drags off those cigarettes and planning on fucking every damned citizen in the country. The only thing you have to fear is me, you cornpone motherfucker.
Do you realize how hard it was to find that fresco? I knew it was in the post office, but the new office was built in 1962 ( by President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, neckfucked by LBJ on Air Force One November 22, 1963, they say, somewhere over Memphis, Tennessee). The old post office is now the fire station and Fire Station Museum. The museum curator didn't know what I was talking about, but the old Fire Chief sent me to a castle like building behind the old courthouse ensconcing the Russell bust (wheels within wheels, Velocibigots!) where the ancient curator there didn't know what I was talking about, either, but some other old biddy did.
And there the fresco sat, leaning against a wall instead of hanging proud.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Change. And Hope. Change? $6.75 and a Speed Racer toy.
Hope? Not a fugging sliver.
Many people have commented on the recent discovery of a so-called uncontacted tribe in the Brazilian rainforest, one of an estimated 100 such singular tribes:
This is indeed marvelous stuff. Many anthropologists insist we should refrain from engaging in contact with said pristine cultures, too, because the very act of such contact would, by its very nature, corrupt their state of ignorant bliss.
I tend to agree with these assessments, given the history of disease and ill-fortune that tends to befall these benighted souls.
However. I think in this instance contact should be made. If for no other reason than to let them know one of their peeps is black:
Hey, they may not know. And it could prove to be helpful if, say, I don't know, maybe their cufflinks started disappearing or something.