Saturday, January 26, 2013

Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier

Started snowing near Finzel, started hard near Mt Morris, rest of trip was interesting but not frighteningly dangerous, just fuckslow. Oh, I only thought I hated motherfucking truckers before encountering motherfucking truckers doing 75 in whiteout conditions. I haven't figured out Ohio DOT's plowing strategy - a state highway can be clean between intersections with other state highways then be unplowed between the clean and the next intersection. The innkeeper where we're staying says there is no pattern, that each snowstorm is plowed different, whether randomly or deliberately designed to confuse and frustrate the populace she's no idea. Stuff about the Inaugural Speech. Goldman Sachs as capitalism's worse enemy. Girl, you'll be a woman soon. Legality, morality, and dehumanization. Avedon's lastest link round-up. Tomorrow's NYTBR gives top billing to new books by Fred Kaplan and Max Boot. What the fuck? Praising the language police. I'm not sure in what capacity Ed's involved, but Ed sends me news of a new radio project. Puzzles and frustrations. Labyrinth croquet. Joke. United steals a striker. darkblack's Weekend Overnight. NEW THE KNIFE! The main purpose of this trip (is to see Planet any chance she gives us) was to drive the car we inherited when my mother-in-law died out to Planet (we stopped in Zanesville and grabbed a one-way rental we'll use to get home), the inherited car had neither USB or AUX ports, so soundtrack was the old yellow CD binder, so it's Bless Serendipity as always that on turning on the laptop once in our room the first thing I see is a new Flaming Lips song (first below) since Soft Bulletin and Clouds Taste Metallic and Transmissions from the Satellite Heart (forgive me, I know they can be bad clowns, but I love the Flaming Lips, especially early Lips) was sound from Hancock to Washington.


Bruce Guernsey

Winter mornings
driving past
I’d see these kids
huddled like grouse
in the plowed ruts
in front of their shack
waiting for the bus,
three small children
bunched against the drifts
rising behind them.

This morning
I slowed to wave
and the smallest,
a stick of a kid
draped in a coat,
grinned and raised
his red, raw hand,
the snowball
packed with rock
aimed at my face.


  1. The innkeeper says there's no conspiracy? What better evidence of a conspiracy???? Rube.