Monday, May 17, 2010

Moving Vehicle.

Boys and girls, that was more than enough rain to make a body want for a new rain gauge, and it didn't rain nearly as much here as there—there being just ten or twelve miles east, where the campus flooded in spots and the septics and sewers backed up and power went out on all the puppet show puppeteers trying to finish off portfolios and papers and bunsen-burner-type experiments. Also: word to the wise: do not, on the way home in all that rain, jam on the brakes of your truck and swerve to avoid a near accident unfolding directly in front of you, lest ye spin the fucker out and participate in an accident of your very own by contacting, ever so gently, an oncoming Jeep Cherokee. First words out of my mouth: "Oh, truck!" But not in the way you think. Do not make it sound like you're cursing. Instead, make it sound sad, like you've dropped your mom's Faberge egg she told you not to touch. Oh. Truck. Like that.

Officer Goodspeed, or Goodbody, to despondent me, in the rain: "That's why they started making anti-lock brakes."

The StormChaser is not dead, and it is not even mortally wounded. It is, however, in want of I think a little alignment work, and probably a new left front fender. A new headlight. Some trim. I drove it home. But still: Goddamnit, shit and hell. Our other participant was not hurt, though she did lock herself briefly out of her car, her two unhurt Chihuahuas inside, until Officer Strongbody opened for her the unlocked right rear door.

In other news, the world is silent but for Boston, which treated this spring's little ongoing experiment in hardcover storytelling quite favorably. The drywall dude comes tomorrow to drywall the writing shed. I have applied for a building permit for the bathroom. Everything on the up-and-up. The straight and narrow. Somewhere around here are the bees' knees, one or both of those birds in the bush, a gift horse, a stitch, some time, and the three inches I needed between me and the mirror and then door handle of that eastbound Jeep.

My back hurts. I'm pretty sure, though, it's from the Cirque-du-Soleil moves I just pulled out back hanging the electric box for the ceiling fan. Gotta get that in pre-drywall. And now, for my next trick. Take my wife, please. I just flew in from 27244, and boy are my arms tired. Oh, truck.

1 comment:

Luke said...

Great post. Glad you're alright. Take care of yourself, Perry, the world would be much poorer without your curmudgeoned good-nature.