a hardcore case of the fuck its

It's official: I have ceased to give a fuck. Printer broken down? Don't ask me - there are clear instructions right there on the control panel for clearing jams. Can't get your text to line up right on that powerpoint? Don't ask me - not my fault your layout sucks and you're trying to cram in too much written info. Payout still hasn't processed your travel reimbursement from last month? Don't ask me - I sent your shit up the day you got back, and I have no idea what kind of black hole swallowed up the paperwork.

Hey state government - either pay support staff a living wage or don't expect much in the way of support.

avast ye!

Some kids want to grow up to be doctors, some to be pilots, some to be cowboys. Me, I always wanted to be a pirate. Give me a tall ship and a star to steer her by. I devoured tales of Florida's buccaneers, both real and imagined and the hearty mix of both that mostly prevails. Gasparilla, Calico Jack, Anne Bonney, Mary Reed, Black Caesar - their stories and the names they left on the keys and islands (Captiva!) still roll around in my brain like cargo burst free in the hold.

Sure, they were violent, murderous villains. But damn, those pirates I loved sure had style.

Anyway, today is Talk Like a Pirate Day. So crack a few pirate jokes, dig out your cutlass, and do what you can to resist the temptation to "to spit on your hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats."

life cycles

Today I felt like posting about the flea market. I'm trying to get some folks up to go out there this weekend. Not so much to buy anything, just to enjoy the afternoon, drink a draft beer or two, and poke the junk.

But here's the funny thing - I thought I'd better check and see what else I've written about Chez Flea, to keep myself from just saying the same thing over again. I checked my tags, and I've done basically one blog entry about how much I love the dirt mall. The date of that post? 9/9/07.

I go to the flea market probably once a month, all year round. But I guess right now is when I start feeling the season change and thinking about nice it is to walk around out there when fall gets here and everything's crisp and cool.

So, anybody want to go buy a pair of used britches, a photo of Elvis shellacked to a cypress board, yard-long incense sticks, or an aloe plant?

true love

My last post reminded me of one of the best things I ever heard on NPR. It's Sarah Vowell doing a piece called "The Greatest Love Story of the 20th Century" about Johnny and June, and I really suggest that you take a second and listen to it. You'll have to let the whole episode load and find it at the end, but it's pretty damn beautiful.

if that ain't country

Real country is heart and grit and sweat and illegal liquor in mason jars. Sinnin' on Saturday night and repenting on Sunday morning and, either way, having faith that you'll be forgiven in the sweet by and by. Country songs can tell a story or mourn a loss or just sound damn good picked out on a backporch while we all drink beers and stomp our feet.

Now, I'm not talking about that twang pop bullshit you see in videos on CMT these days. No frosted hair, booty bassline Trashville throwawauy crap. I'm talking about Johnny and June singing "Far Side Banks Of Jordan" and bringing tears to your eyes and raising goosebumps on your arms (And I'll be waiting on the far side banks of Jordan/I'll be waiting drawing pictures in the sand/And when I see you coming, I will rise up with a shout/And come running through the shallow waters reaching for your hand.). And I mean Dolly and Merle and, hell, even sketchy fuckers like David Allen Coe have had their moments.

We here in Tallahassee are blessed enough to get the best of both the old and the new on a real radio station, the kind not programmed by test groups or DJed by computers. WGWD, 93.3 FM, Classic Country, turns 20 this month. You can even listen online if you ain't from here. They play everything from bluegrass to country gospel, and their DJs even still do some of the ads ("Now, when you get on down to Quincy, you need to go ahead and stop by that country buffet..."). It's the real deal, and that's in short supply.

(And in case you're curious, that photo is of Red Foley, Little Jimmy Dickens, Minnie Pearl and Hank Williams, Sr. hitting Europe back in the day.)

there and back again

Well, I rode Greyhound to DC, hung out with my girlfriend, helped partially convert an old Merz to run on veggie oil, walked all over town, rode down to Atlanta in said Mercedes, got drunk and happy at a small oi festival, ate gravy and biscuits, and came on home. Check it out:

Smithsonians ahoy! We basically did every free thing in DC.



We walked all over the National Mall, and settled down to rest some near Grant in front of the Capital. This is my gal Leila, footsore but still smiling.



Thems as know me know my fear of frogs and toads. Seriously, they scare the bejesus out of me - no idea why. So here I am saying, "Oh, no, a frog!" at the National Zoo.



Then we hit Atlanta for a big oi! show. Here I am with Kel and Perry - Kel writes for my zines from time to time and Perry's known for being in The Templars, among other bands. Class folks, they live over in Jax when not drinking heavily in Atlanta.

let the big dog run

When you ride Greyhound, strangers offer you booze out of plastic bottles and illegal drugs and sometimes sexual favors. I once saw a young woman work the same fellow for a couple hundred miles, getting lunch and sodas and attention from him all the way across Texas, only to be picked up by her girlfriend in El Paso.

When you ride Greyhound, you get to see paroled prisoners in county issue suits, newly free again, dig into huge fast food meals. They suck down milkshakes and gobble hamburgers and seldom look straight at anyone. Out west, authorities pull the bus over and go down the row asking names and where you were born, and lord help you if there's some Spanish in your English. When you ride Greyhound, you watch old men in sheepswool-lined denim jackets get pulled off and herded into trailers set up in dusty pull offs, left behind as we roll back onto the highway.

When you ride Greyhound at night through the desert, far off towns become stars in an ink spill sky. I could never go into space, because that feeling of tumbling through the void while cold lights blink at you and the only thing louder than your breathing is the engine keeping you aloft scared me witless until I opened my eyes to the dawn chasing us.

When you ride Greyhound, everything is further away than you think.