Err... We THERE yet???????
OK... so, I'd been suffering from Writer's Block...
Thought of signing meself onto a three-year-voyage aboard the Pequod to go a-whalin', me hearties; you know-- me and Queequeg and Starbuck enjoying a Starbuck's capuccino on the forward deck with the tang of salty sea-air in our nostrils and the strains of Tom Waits' 'Shiver Me Timbers' a-blastin from the boombox lashed to the mast... just below the gold dubloon a-nailed thar... but, truth is: been thar, matey; done that; and got the tee-shirt, you could say...
Figured I needed to break the spell, needed a change of scene... a change of routine... a change of genre... opted instead to climb aboard this h'yere stage coach a-headin' west, young man, instead. It's a-goin' to Deadwood, they tell me, an' tha's all ah needs to hear.
"Deadwood?" I says... "Well, count me in, boys," I says...
"But she'll be some dangerous," they says. "We takin' us a li'l detour, ya see... through a coupla places... one's called The Badlands (and fer good reason, too!). Then... there's them rattler-infested Black Hills. If'n we survive them, well... prob'ly we'll just mosey on down to a paticklar river called... The Li'l Big Horn. They's some Injuns down that-a-way that I reckon you might allow ain't quite what you'd call 'happy campers,' if you catch my meanin'... if you get my drift..."
"Boys?" I says. "I seen The White Whale up close an' pers'nal more than once, an' Ah'm a-still here to tell of it. Jus' han' me that double-barrel shotgun an' gimme a han' up to sit next to that 'air mule skinner, wouldja...? Like Leonard Cohen once tol' me: 'I'm yore man.' From this point on, you kin jes' call me Ishmael the Kid. Le's giddyup now!"
"Well, ain't you jes' an onery feller!" they says...
"Boys? Yew jes' better pray yew don'ever hafta ever find out just how ornery," I reply darkly.
An here I am now, a-playin' "Red River Valley" on my ol' harmonica under the stars next to the buffalo-chip campfire...a way out here already in the Wilds of Wisconsin... a journey of a thousand miles begun with a single step...
"It's quiet..." one of'em growls... "...too quiet..."
Thought of signing meself onto a three-year-voyage aboard the Pequod to go a-whalin', me hearties; you know-- me and Queequeg and Starbuck enjoying a Starbuck's capuccino on the forward deck with the tang of salty sea-air in our nostrils and the strains of Tom Waits' 'Shiver Me Timbers' a-blastin from the boombox lashed to the mast... just below the gold dubloon a-nailed thar... but, truth is: been thar, matey; done that; and got the tee-shirt, you could say...
Figured I needed to break the spell, needed a change of scene... a change of routine... a change of genre... opted instead to climb aboard this h'yere stage coach a-headin' west, young man, instead. It's a-goin' to Deadwood, they tell me, an' tha's all ah needs to hear.
"Deadwood?" I says... "Well, count me in, boys," I says...
"But she'll be some dangerous," they says. "We takin' us a li'l detour, ya see... through a coupla places... one's called The Badlands (and fer good reason, too!). Then... there's them rattler-infested Black Hills. If'n we survive them, well... prob'ly we'll just mosey on down to a paticklar river called... The Li'l Big Horn. They's some Injuns down that-a-way that I reckon you might allow ain't quite what you'd call 'happy campers,' if you catch my meanin'... if you get my drift..."
"Boys?" I says. "I seen The White Whale up close an' pers'nal more than once, an' Ah'm a-still here to tell of it. Jus' han' me that double-barrel shotgun an' gimme a han' up to sit next to that 'air mule skinner, wouldja...? Like Leonard Cohen once tol' me: 'I'm yore man.' From this point on, you kin jes' call me Ishmael the Kid. Le's giddyup now!"
"Well, ain't you jes' an onery feller!" they says...
"Boys? Yew jes' better pray yew don'ever hafta ever find out just how ornery," I reply darkly.
An here I am now, a-playin' "Red River Valley" on my ol' harmonica under the stars next to the buffalo-chip campfire...a way out here already in the Wilds of Wisconsin... a journey of a thousand miles begun with a single step...
"It's quiet..." one of'em growls... "...too quiet..."
My comical side-kick, Ol' Phyl, dead-center holding maroon jacket under her arm
