Just Thinking....

Why is it that whenever I'm behind someone in line I want to slap them out of my way. The backs of people's heads enrage me for some reason. Maybe because they are so innocent and defenseless. If I could have any superpower I wanted, just one wish to be granted, it would be to have the ability to morph my right hand into Andre The Giant's hand. Whenever I get the urge my hand just turns into the big freaks hand and I wallop the person in front of me upside the head. No harm intended. I don't dislike you per se, it's just that your head annoys me.

Darkness

Sitting in the darkness listening to old school country music wondering if there is a point to any of "this". We're all on borrowed time. Cinnamon(my last surviving bantam hen) is out there all alone waiting for the fox to come and get her. All of us have a "fox" out there that's making its way toward us. I guess the best attitude to have is the "duct tape a meat cleaver to each hand and sprint in the direction of the "fox" laughing all the way" attitude.

My Grandfather's Bar

Mrs D.O.M.s latest assignment for me is to paint all the furniture in the dining room white. I hate painting and I hate when it's given to me as a chore. Anyway, one of the pieces in the dining room is a bar that my grandfather made about 50 years ago. I've been putting off "re-doing" this for years. To me it's a holy item. My grandfather was a carpenter/casket maker and the bar was made from mahogany that was used to make caskets. I'm sure, the project of making the bar, was and excuse of his to escape from his family. Something ALL real men do. "What honey? You want me to make a bar? Sure thing, I'll be out in my workshop every night for a week. I'll need to get some supplies(Vodka and cigarettes) first". What's really cool about this piece is some of his writing on the underside of the shelves in the back. There are a couple of scribbled notes and some measurements written down(that I never knew were there until today)and to me it makes the bar even more special. It's like part of his spirit resides there. And don't think that I don't know how wrong it is to paint over beautiful wood like mahaogany. Norm Abram would have my head, but I see it as a way to keep it part of the family. Adapt and you survive. To honor my Dad and his Dad I really should be drinking Vodka while I do this. It is a bar after all. I'll do the final coat of paint while drinking a shooter and smoking a camel non filter.

Saturday Morning

I'm setting up Mrs D.O.M.'s tent at the Concord Art Market in the freezing cold frigid October morning(it snowed yesterday morning Mr Gore) I'm not cold everybody but else is. They're babies and they're not built for extremeness like me. Anyway I'm walking by a woman who was setting up her tent

Missy is Gone

I went to let my hens out this morning and instead of seeing two of my little sweethearts, only one greeted me. The late Ruben's old lady Missy didn't make it back into the coop last night. It means only one thing. She's in the belly of some animal. How the hell can anyone eat a chicken? She was a wonderful friend. The last remaining chicken, Cinnamon, has always gone into a state of hysteria whenever she lost sight of Missy. This is going to be hard on her. Tenderhearted Mrs D.O.M. said I should just snap Cinnamon's neck to put her out of her misery.

Saturday NIght

So I'm in the "Dress Barn" with Mrs D.O.M. We're loaded. Dresses? What's not to like. But when your Doc "Friggin" Manly you got no business being in a dress store with a bunch of dames. They don't even have a bloomer section. I'm trying to get Vicki to steal a dress but she's having none of it. What the hell are we doin in Kittery anyway? I wonder if any one of these broads wants me to take my shirt off and show them my new tattoo. Vicki stops me. I giggle like a school girl and do my "Duke Wayne" saunter to a rack of skirts over by the dressing room. After about five minutes of pretending to thumb through the rack I notice Mrs D.O.M. has left the store. That bitch!

Friday Night

Coffee. Tom Jones cranking. Working on Don Knotts drawing. Taylor on an ice cream run. Verde on loon patrol down in Lowell. Feel like I've got a grip. Recent local heinous crime got me thinking about more firepower. Booby traps? Clown suit? How cool would this be. Someone breaking into my house and I come running out of the woods in a Spongebob costume with a .45 in each hand. Just riddling my house with bullets. I smash the would be home invaders out of my way and break my own door down... Anyway... I can't wait for Taylor to get back, she's supposed to surprise me with a new ice cream flavor.

A Day at Jim's Tattoo

Lots of stress lately, raging arguments in my head with no end in sight and no foreseeable solution. No solution until The Smoke Eater(famous Boston Firefighter) calls me and says "When we gettin some more ink". That's it! An afternoon among the manly is what's needed. Nothing better for the soul than to spend the day at Jim's Tattoo shop and having a tattoo legend dig a hole in your arm with a needle attached to an old dentist drill for two hours. This to me is the equivalent of when "normal people" go get a massage or spend the day at the spa having a relaxing mud bath. Getting a tattoo is an almost zen-like meditative experience(which may be addictive). Sitting in a chair for hours, focused on breathing, trash talking our "old ladies", the game on, pain blood and ink in abundant supply. Like modern day vikings. I mean, have you ever had a stressful day at work or stuck home with the family and wanted to empty a revolver in your head or taser yourself? A tattoo scratches that itch.