We spent most of today getting ready for the snow, hoping it won’t be the nightmare they’re having southwards. As much as I like the occasional snow, the ground is already saturated and we’re getting low on firewood again. There’s plenty cut and stacked in the woods, but it’s wet, too.
We are fortunate enough to have a couple of sheds full of old tobacco stakes, but I’d prefer to save those for a real emergency. I’m not at all clear what that emergency would be, but whatever it is, I want to have an abundance of tobacco stakes.
A discussion over at Nancy’s on intimate apparel and Rosie’s on a selection of British GQ’s best dressed, combined with the deep freeze here, has led to a certain convergence between my ears. Rana has previously mentioned her interest in the steampunk aesthetic, so I thought I’d haul out some of the shit vintage clothing I’ve bought over the years to put together a “look”. It’s sort of a combination of Tractor Supply, the haul from a fire sale at Canal Jean some thirty or forty years ago, remnants of old sweatpants, Harry Truman’s eyewear, WWII Japanese aviation boots, and wattles. The ensemble is pulled together by the looming presence of Frederriccio, in an insulating jacket of adobe (his personal creation).
I call it True Grot.
A dear former teacher of mine (4th grade) who took me out West one summer to keep her dad company after her mother was killed in an a car accident, told me as we drove through Yellowstone: Never trust anyone over the age of thirty in a cowboy hat.
As a general rule, in memory of my teacher, you will not catch me publicly dead in this hat. This is merely an artist’s conception of what I might look like if you caught me in the state of morbid lividity, dressed like Truman Capote at a theme rave.

On a slightly related note, I wonder if anyone’s ever dropped ecstasy to this joint: (Go ahead. Click through. Sony won’t hurt you this time)

To some, this music represents the defeated expectations of the settlers as they confronted the inseparable beauty and cruelty of the West.
I, on the other hand, am convinced Morricone stole it from some obscure 19th century lieder about pattern baldness.