Just when you thought it was safe to drop in and read about something like feces transplants, overinflated tires, the habit of chewing on dog noses, sewer vent pipes that look like Ming vases, and septuagenarians with holes in their pants...I find it necessary to revisit the subject of my lost books.
Not so much the lost books. The replacement books. The replacement books graciously provided by the publisher because she's a stand-up gal. What a relief it was to open the garage door this evening and find them sitting there in their particle-board-blending camouflage of cardboard-box brown. Right on top of the generator that lolls about like a relief pitcher, spitting sunflower-seed shells, signing autographs, scanning the stands for comely lasses, and doing a big bunch of nothing until called upon to save the day.
Here's a photo to mark the occasion:
Yes, it's been said many times many ways: Val lives in the past. Please excuse my 2011 calendar. I like the picture. And also excuse that giant-number "wall" phone, brought home by Hick from an old man acquaintance he used to have who used to have this phone. Nothing goes to waste on Hick's watch. Especially a cuckoo clock that I despise like Rene Zellweger as Ruby Thewes despises a floggin' rooster.
Now that the merchandise is in, I plan to strap on my change belt and hit the streets. Not like that. Several folks have been clamoring for one of each of my wares.
I hope they didn't blow their money on 44 oz. Diet Cokes and gas station chicken.