a diet of free sick birds
Friday, July 15 2011
At around noon Gretchen took the dogs off with her to get another unsatisfactory haircut, the kind that costs a lot up front and will look fine in a week. (That's a lot like the haircuts I give myself, aside from the "costs a lot up front" part.) I went on my own separate journey, mostly to get that Subaru constant velocity axle I'd tried to get yesterday. While I was there, I also got a set of front brake pads for the same car.
I also went to the Uptown Hannaford and Herzog's to get things like corn chips, ice trays (to make coffee ice cubes!), a sprinkler to help automate my evening watering routine, and a gallon of Arborcoat exterior stain to see if its any better than the craptastic stains I've been using. While I was waiting in line at Herzog's to buy some of those things, there was talkative guy in line in front of me who started talking about how many free "winds" (or was it "wins"?) he's gotten in his life. The guy was wearing paint-spattered grey sweat pants and came equipped with an enormous gut. And then I realized he was talking about "wings," as in "buffalo wings," a uniquely-American meat product extracted from unhappy birds raised in filthy overcrowded conditions. I just nodded my head and joked, "Yeah, you must be mostly made out of chicken at this point." Later he bantered with the cashier and others at the paint desk about how the shit was going to be going down on August 2nd when (given that no solution is politically possible in its present polarized predicament) America defaulted on its debt obligations. The Herzog's employees mostly had no idea what he was talking about, which reminded me how much better tuned-in to the news I am than the average person is. At some point paint-spattered cut-off sweat pants dude mentioned the unusual coolness of recent weather, and I said, "Yeah, it was too cool to go swimming yesterday." He agreed, saying that, at his age, he has to watch out about chills because his immune system isn't what it used to be. It crossed my mind that perhaps eating a diet so rich in sick birds probably isn't helping.
On the drive home, I mined a further eight buckets of dirt from my favorite Esopus dirt mine. Back at the house, I added it mostly to the new water diversion ridge south of the southmost tomato patch.
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