Squall Lines

Power out last night, intense squall lines moving through, but enough wind that the driveway is passable. Stopped for a pint at the pub, tonight, and ended up staying for two, both bought by others. I must be good pub company because a lot of people buy me pints or a shot of Paddy. The last time I stayed to listen to music, my entire tab was the tip I left Astra. Sharee started bringing in the Best Of High Schools art show, yearly event, "Visually Literate", which is always fun and easy to criticize, a lot of angst and depression. At lunch time a large tour group came in, the art classes from the Catholic High School, and their teacher, Anisha, ask me to docent them. Wasn't on the calendar and no warning, but I was the only person there and couldn't go out for lunch anyway. A good time. I took them through the entire museum, every exhibit, and was in rare form for an hour and a half, interacting and making them laugh. I'm the cool art guy, as Anisha calls me, because I'm anecdotal and use a few naughty words. The kids lap it up. This batch was particularly interactive, and a handful of them were quite sharp. Two of the boys asked some very good questions about the valuation of folk art, and one of the girls very quickly pointed out the two photographs, in that exhibit, that aren't photo-shopped. I lost them for a bit in the Carters, until we got to the later work, where there's an egg in everything, and they wondered what was up with that. I gave a five minute lecture on life and death, touching on all the major points. They were quite attentive. One of the two boys (I have to smile, that phrase is so like one of my favorites, in a story I tell about Juan Of The Two Beauties) touched me on the elbow on their way out, and asked me how I knew all that shit. I told him to read a book a day for 60 years. Pegi yelled out, on the Appalachian Telegraph, 'when was the "Snap Shot" show' and I immediately yelled back that it was March to May, 2004, and TR yelled back that he hoped to God I was reading that, and didn't just remember. Where Glenn and I started, all those years ago: to recall is not same as to call. Fucking whip-o-wills. I always forget. My older daughter calls, and we have a great conversation about hops and beer; and I barely have time to roll a smoke and get a drink before the phone rings again, and it's Sara from Hilton Head and they got the painting back, unpacked, and hanging on the wall. They love it, it's a great painting, and they went to great pains to explain how they appreciated our packing it for transport. Clay and I talked about hacking apart "Henry The Fourth, Part One" into a pub drama, I petitioned him to come up with a script. I'm excited about this, as long as someone else does the actual work. Ideas, as they say, are a dime a dozen. For recreation, I build houses in my head, complex structures that involve joints that haven't been invented yet, or knots that haven't been tied. What I do, is simply come up with solutions. In a weird way it relaxes me, figuring how the load is carried, like there was an algorithm for a complex variable that I didn't understand.
 
Tom
 
I wish I'd bought that two pound bag of pistachios, several hours ago. They, really, are the only thing I'm after.