a 2nd editor’s note and some other things including a piggly wiggly shout out.

the black swan post brought upon more feedback than i had anticipated.

it appears that a second round of clarification is necessary. or maybe it’s not, but i’m doing it anyway.

first: the photo is not of my leg. and to those of you who though it was, i ask: in what world do legs look like that?? this particular eruption of blood vessels landed between my rib cage and my hip bone. and when asked “did it hurt?” ………… yeah, you could say that.

second: the horse tranquilizer was a shot. the good ol’ fashioned kind. nothing racy.

in other news that is really not newsworthy w.h.a.t.s.o.e.v.e.r. . . . .

this has been just about the single most unproductive day of all time. but after an evening with sweet georgia brown (a new york city legend that you really should track down if you ever find yourself in the apple on a friday or saturday) followed by a corona-infused evening that ended with a multi-hour discussion debate over egyptian politics and the risks involved in traveling to israel, i’m pretty much just spent.

i called my dad to wish him happy birthday. that was productive.

he was in the backyard chopping wood.

typical.

he had also taken a ride to my grandfather’s old farm to “check things out” which probably included some form of harmless trespassing.

[my dad’s definitions of trespassing are rather flexible. he can always justify why he is standing on any given piece of property. this is the same man who used to take me to the marriott hotel to go swimming -- year ‘round -- because, at the time, we weren’t members of any pool. i thought everyone went to the marriott to go swimming. imagine my surprise when i learned you actually had to be renting-by-the-night to make use of their facilities.]

my grandfather used to own this farm in rural north carolina where he had horses and the likes and wore blue jeans and cowboy boots and taught my dad and his brothers how to shoot guns and drink wild turkey.

i don’t know exactly how long he owned the farm, but it was a long time. and it fueled some of the greatest childhood memories a kiddo could hope for. every easter, my dad and uncles would go to the piggly wiggly and buy a whole flock of baby chickens and bring them back to us in a big brown box. i can recount hours spent standing on my tip toes hovered over the box watching the baby chickens. waiting for them to do something.

for the life of me, i have no idea what we ever did with the baby chickens after easter was over.

we sure as hell didn’t take them home and raise them. i can promise you that.

although we probably should have.

and i think i’ll let the marriott topic resurface next time i talk to my parents.

i mean, why do they spend all that money on country club dues when they can just swing on over to the hotel by the airport?

i don’t ever remember us getting thrown out . . .