Alstublieft, kunt u me vertellen of de duivel hier woont?
The tobacco harvest is once again upon us in Smithville. The farmers work their way through the fields during the day, and burn off the harvested areas at night. The air is redolent with burning tobacco. If cigarettes had the same fragrance as that, I would still be a smoker. It’s delicious, as though an entire field of robber barons were enjoying fine cubans in my backyard. Because, if I have failed to mention, I have a tobacco field in my backyard. Ah, the rural life....
Hope everyone had a marvelous Labor Day. I, myself, cleaned the house, and blew a little glass. What a holiday. You know what happens when you stop blowing glass for three months? It ain’t like riding a bicycle, that's for sure. I. am. so. screwed.
Every time I come to the fine arts building, I pass by wall of pictures from the music sorority over the years, and there, at the top of 1972, is my face. Okay, so it's my mother's face, but it serves as that ever-present reminder that I owe my very existence to the theater department, here. How else would an engineer and a music major have ever found each other, much less agreed to procreate? Thanks, theater, for bringing geeks of all walks of life together in darkened rooms.
And to think I never thought much of Kitty Kelly before.
Have a fantastic day, people.
Listening to: Someone slaughtering Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring on a piano down the hall.
Title-Excuse me, can you tell me if Satan lives here?