"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."


Blackbird Screwdriver

Smithville creeps me out. Those of you who have visited my humble abode know I am surrounded on several sides by what one might call "tracts of land," and not much else. One parcel gets some commercial use during the year as a tobacco field, and it rarely causes me any great concern. The other side, however, is more sketchy. It doesn't appear to have any purpose in life but to attract persons who, for one reason or another, need to go somewhere unpopulated by humans for awhile. This generally manifests in varying degrees of annoyances, such as the asshole who feels the need to ride his four-wheeler up and down my street on the Saturdays when I am home and sleeping at the entirely reasonable hour of 3 p.m. I have seen a number of deer down in that area, and am sure I would see many, many more if it weren't for all the gunshots I hear coming from that direction. Right next to my house.
Tonight, however, may have been a bit more than an annoyance. I have trouble coming up with any good reasons for a fairly loud truck sounding as if it's parking on my front lawn at 11 p.m., muffled voices for a few minutes while the engine is still running, some gate and door slamming, and then squealing tires. It just screams "shady." And not in a good way.
It seems to me that, among several reasons more highly populated areas tend have the reputation of being more crime-ridden, it's only a crime if there is a witness. And Smithville is a little short on those. But what do I know? I live "in town." Most of my friends live in hollers and coves, and those frighten me even more.
Me, I'm a fan of witnesses, so I made the trek to the "big city" for my annual three-day (compensation for my poor, dear mother's 36 hours of labor) birthday extravabration. Thanks to all who rolled out the carpets, offered up the drinks, fed me, beat me at Cranium (?), overcame locked cars (I swear I'm going to develop an implantable chip that will unlock the user's car doors, or at least keep them generally advised to their key's whereabouts before the door is closed), and generally hung out and helped me fully acclimate to this strange, new age. I'm sorry to those of you (with bird flu or blood ties to me) I didn't get to see more.
My favorite gift thus far has already captured too much of my time and attention (yes, the project is finished) and has me waxing philosophical on my many obsessions (glass, salt, booze, men...). Ross claimed it seemed I'm searching for purity, or clarity, perhaps, but I realized I love these things most in their adulterated, highly impure forms, color in glass, assorted minerals in salt, you name it in booze, and use your imagination because I'm not handing out that last one. Either way, volumes can and have been written about the historical significance of each of my aforementioned demons, and I have to wonder what significance that holds for me. I have some answers, but they're not coming to me as eloquently now as they did when I was in the shower a few minutes ago. They rarely do.
I don't know where I'm going with that just yet. But I sure could go for a Margarita. Three out of Four ain't bad.