Oh blog, sorry I have forsaken you.
I’ve been taking advantage of this greenhouse winter to get some projects up and running that I might easily finish in the event it gets cold again. I already got one of them done, even.

We have seasonal bedrooms here at the shack. The summer bedroom is on an east facing enclosed porch that has been fitted with storm windows and screens. We’ve slept out there in the winter, under a mound of blankets so heavy they’d twist your feet off.

My wife is a great strategist when it comes to annexing the blankets to her side of the bed. She works slowly and deliberately in an apparent deep sleep. I started to worry that I’d go to bed drunk one night, she’d unwrap me, and I’d give up my last calorie before I woke.

So a couple of years ago, we moved an old iron bedframe from the “guest bedroom” upstairs into my studio downstairs. The studio has a large woodstove that will heat most of the house on the coldest of days if you are willing to forgo about half your normal intake of breathable air. The problem with antique iron beds is they have all been previously owned by powerfuckers or jackknifed by large cornfed women during a home childbirth. My wife and I were denied the opportunity to even try and shred it because it was already the goddamn bridge at San Luis Rey.

One night I was dreaming I was on a dive on the drowned Japanese Fleet at Chuuk lagoon, and had just found the galley in the waist of a destroyer, filled with the skeletons of sailors who’d been dry cooked when the magazine exploded. When I was getting ready to leave, a bulkhead sheared, pinning me in the same watery grave. I was trying to wriggle my dive tanks off when I woke up sandwiched between the collapsed bed rail and the box spring. My wife was already surveying the wreckage with a flashlight.

I looked at the prices for new beds, and the ones that didn’t look like they belonged in a dorm or a super 8 porno were expensive and built of scantling. I had an old five panel door that looked like it would make a nice headboard, and some unused timbers I had purchased to build an addition to our previous house. I decided to build a mortise and tenon bedframe, with the added practical benefit of carriage bolts for knockdown.

A Youtube search for “making a bed from an old headboard” yielded this:

That there’s what I call pedagogy. In the process of reminding me I’m a filthy old man, the goddess taught me what I needed to know. Thanks Goddess!*

Here’s the result. Hopefully this bastard will see a lot of action, although I might as well man up and admit it’s mostly going to be up to future generations to supply it.

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*The goddess also reminds me that I am incapable of teaching, or even the pretense of it.

Upon graduation, I took a substitute teaching job as an assistant in a special needs class. Once I got over the shock of how they just lumped kids with widely divergent disabilities together in a kind of holding pen, I cheerfully accepted each day’s fresh horror as a penance for the athletic drinking I would be certain to undertake on the weekends.

There was no instruction going on, but specialists and social workers sometimes visited the classroom to assess the needs of individual kids, many of whom lived in the seventh circle of hell. There was a nice young woman who would play guitar and sing happy, earnest songs to the handicapped adolescents as they shifted nervously in their desks and wheelchairs. They would ask me difficult questions, which I would refer to the nice young woman whenever possible.

I accompanied the class on a field trip to the Asheboro Zoo. The guitar lady began playing the moment the charter bus left the school. My jaw was frozen in the rictus of a fake smile when we got off the bus some days? later. The zoo entrance, as I remember, was near the baboon compound, and I positioned myself near the high railing vainly trying to disgorge ‘if you’re happy and you know it’ from my wet brain.

Meanwhile, in the compound, the strains of love’s old song began to play among the bored primates.

The first thing I noticed was a visibly agitated female baboon backing up to an old male, her arse a flaming red. She wiggled it slowly in the most aggressive public sexual display I’d seen since I quit going to Pantana Bob’s in Greenville, NC.

I was trying to find a place to escape the inevitable student’s questions when a phalanx of them approached, reducing my options to climbing into the baboon enclosure itself .
The male sat mournfully on his haunches, picked up his floppy dong, dropped it, picked it up, dropped it.

It was like an art film about an elderly craft potter who’s become disenchanted with clay. At this point, the subtitle “Alas!” would have flashed across the bottom of the screen.

“What’s that monkey doing? “asked one of the Downs kids. Sly, evil little fucker.
I reviewed my limited inventory of obfuscatory sexual terminology, and coughed out “He’s just hating himself real bad. Let’s go see the giraffes.”