My Sign

Crossed mops. And on the pocket, the name Frank. We just entered my house so maybe this will be a good month, good being loosely defined as a month in which nothing terrible happens. I think the danger with rabies is past, and the last month, defined as 30.41666 days, what with the engorged tick, the bat, breaking my toe, was not that great. Fortunately I'm a calm guy now, no longer easily riled, I have a high pain threshold, and my immune system seems to be intact. Got a truck load of white ash from that place where everybody dumps unwanted wood. All pre-cut, branches, 3-4 inches in diameter. Perfect firewood. Specific Gravity .67, 42 pounds per cubic foot. Another load tomorrow. When you live in the hardwood capital of the world, firewood is not a problem, especially if you scrounge in the off-season. I'm so green it hurts, I not only recycle my own shit, but I burn the waste of others. That was a joke then it didn't sound like one, a clunker, a clinker, a kink in the telling. I just meant that the wood was free and I was taking every advantage. Scrounging with intent. The power company is cutting easements, and I get a lovely 8 foot section of black locust, for just helping the guy get some brush off the road. Dead Of Winter, this would be a day's wood. I love this show we're unloading tomorrow, the ODC, Ohio Designer Craftsmen, we do it every other year, top-shelf stuff, considered. I love looking at this stuff, being a critic, I love unpacking it, I love putting on white cotton gloves and handling; once, I can only remember parts of it, a dream, we agreed that certain things meant certain things. I remember this, we were playing chess, and everything depended on the move.