Compulsive Liar

I'm a liberal, that's not quite right, I'm probably a libertarian. I support assistance wherever it might help, as long as the dog you might feed doesn't come back to bite you. There's some state or federal program whereby people get food stamps for doing community service. I'm not a good judge of people, and I don't want to be, it's not my area of expertise, but because the museum is a non-profit organization, and because our office manager wants some people to run errands, we now have two of them. One is actually a good worker, the other is a terrible worker and as far as I can tell, a compulsive liar. The suspected liar turned art critic today, talking about the box installation, and it was all I could do to stay quiet. Little opening reception for the photo show tomorrow, and I told Sara I'd stay for it. We're serving beer and wine and some of the students are underage. I'll just ask them. I'm one of those people who feel strongly that if you're old enough to die for your country, you're old enough to drink beer, and I can't judge age worth a damn anyway. Maybe some decent conversation. A beer at the pub after work. D and A showed up, we laughed, talked logistics. No one at the lake, on the way home, so I stopped, watched the surface of the water dimpled with fish striking at bugs. With a Royal Coachman, and my nine foot bamboo fly-rod, I could catch a bushel of these hatchery-raised trout, but where's the sport in that? and they don't taste good anyway. When you've eaten native Cut-Throat trout caught out of water that was 38 degrees, at ten thousand feet, nothing else quite clears the bar. Especially not hatchery fish raised on dog-food. I have some standards, be they ever so arbitrary. Or tributary. Coming up the driveway, I just couldn't hold the line, my front tires jumped, and I was in the grader ditch, had to switch into four-wheel low to get out. Fucking driveway, man, it's eating my truck. I really must talk with B about maintenance, but I really hate dealing with Alpha Males because they're such a pain in the ass. I'd sell this place in a heart-beat, move to an apartment where there was a thermostat and running water. I would. Despite the loss of crows, and foxes, and all the other shit that says boom in the night. I'd get more work done, my work, which is writing you. I don't do anything else, other than write you and eat dinner; I roll a few smokes, pour a drink; but my yard is a jungle.