Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
It's raining here today. A big line of it (rain, that is) came across from Mississippi in the wee earlies, and it's been drizzling since about 10:00 or so. Not hard, driving, purposeful rain, not a misty, mysterious damp--just a light rain that's so small it goes through the umbrella fabric. And yes, there's enough coming down to where you have to carry an umbrella. Even though it's not working the way it should--more like a penumbrella.
Anyway, it's all furry and dank outside, but it'll pass. I walked over to Sneaky Pete's to get some food since it's close. I used to go to the place next door--it has pretty good food, and it has the same health department grade as Sneaky Pete's. I can ascribe that grade only to some sort of miracle. I'm sure it must be clean, but the decor is old and dark and filmy-feeling, whereas Pete's is bright and cheery. And the lady at the cash register has more varieties of "hon," "sugar," "dear," etc., as anyone I have ever heard. And it does have the lady who looks like Lauren Hutton.
It wasn't too busy today; by Thursday it tapers off because most of the folks on jury duty over at the courthouse have been excused. A couple of guys from upstairs, one guy from downstairs, a couple of groups from BellSouth, including a guy with an untucked shirttail and a long, graying, slick pony tail. He was with a woman who can best be described by using a fine old word my mother uses: frimpy.
I don't know where she ever came up with that word--with the inflection in the way she says it, it sounds a bit like frump and simp and frivolous and skimpy and tramp, all put together. It's the sort of way she describes some stringy, hollow-eyed woman with scorched-blonde hair and a smoke hanging out of her mouth; aged beyond her years, loud, uncouth, brash, hot-ended. And unconcernedly so.
Anyway, they stood there waiting on their food, bothering and rough-housing with each other in that way that some folks do--he, holding a drinking straw in his teeth and trying to poke her in the face with it; she, hoarsely laughing and punching him in the chest.
Takes all types, I suppose.
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