"I can take that point and hold it as long as I like -- and you can get anywhere you want up that river that suits you, young captain. Hell, a six foot peak." No question about it: rube shack du jour. you working turnips, sugar beets, rutabega's? love the phallic fireplace. Inviting on any number of dimensions. "Marshmallows? Prairie fire? Corn bread perchance?"
Born a Midwestern rube with
dreams of greatness. I knew there was more to the world
than the horses in the barn and a chicken pot pie in the
oven. Something beyond the flat, cornfield expanses of my
misspent youth. More than keggers in fields. More than
mindless groping in wheat. So I got headed out West to California to seek my Fame and Fortune. Things
went well. But now, as drive to and fro, criss-crossing the
Freakishfantastical ciudad de Los Angeleos, I can't help
thinking about how much I miss keggers in fields and
mindless groping in wheat. Like they say, the grass is
always browner.
3 comments:
It's a (very very very) fine house
No cats in the yard, thank god.
"I can take that point and hold it as long as I like -- and you can get anywhere you want up that river that suits you, young captain. Hell, a six foot peak."
No question about it: rube shack du jour. you working turnips, sugar beets, rutabega's? love the phallic fireplace. Inviting on any number of dimensions. "Marshmallows? Prairie fire? Corn bread perchance?"
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