Well fine, fair weather perverts, all three of you. So I haven't posted in a couple weeks. What, you need a constantly refreshed stream of
nonsense very astute commentary from me? Every frickin minute? You do, really? I heart unhealthy codependence. Which is why I'm in the wilds of southern Utah recharging my batteries -- 32AAA. Ha, getting there. Here's something I hate (and nurturing various antipathies is another sign I'm almost back to 100 proof) -- relaxing. God I hate relaxing. When I tear out of the lodge in a coffee-feuled mania at 6:15 a.m. (which, incidentally is several hours earlier than I arise at home) to get in ten spleen-melting miles on red dirt Navajo Nation roads prior to our double traverse of the Grand Canyon, and I come back stoked and smelling like three-day-old mutton and see a bunch of Germans in faggoty capris (herr) and an ikat printed tunic with matching capris (her) relaaaaaaxing on the porch with their big American kafes looking smugly mellow, well, it's all I can do not to dump them out of their rockers mentioning that they are even at that moment supporting the lazy good-for-nothing siesta-loving late-night-eating Spanish. I can sit on my ass at home. I can relax when I die. If I pay good money to fly to the land of polygamy, dammit I'm going to get up early and stay up late fitting in as much inappropriate behavior as wives in a wagon. Hoowee.
Here's me and the kumquat enjoying a bowel-clearing gambol in southern Utah. This is what passes for entertainment here. I'll tell you more about it later but right now, the Mormon I paid to hand-crank the router has to go grind some flour. La la.