I'll be heading out in the morning to Benton County to spend the weekend with the lady friend. Supposed to rain and storm, but what the hell. I won't melt. And maybe some foul weather will deter those THP roadblocks they're bound to throw up everywhere, although it's not unusual to see those dudes with their yellow raincoats and Smokey Bear hat covers stopping cars in a flood.
Fuck 'em. I may be hauling something, but it won't be open and I won't be drinking. And the pistol and cartridges will be in separate compartments. Won't be packing Condition One in my rear pocket as was case last time I was busted. I tried to get a permit years ago, because of anonymous death threats. Somebody left me messages that I was going to "disappear." Said they would grind me up and put me in Big Buck Bottom. And, they mentioned a few things nobody would know if they hadn't been following me. Made a believer out of me. And the chief of police, too. He heard it on answering machine and thought it was serious.
Course, my crime writing offended a lot of people back then. Being threatened wasn't out of the ordinary. A couple time, I invited the "threatener" out to the beer joint parking lot, if they were really intent on settling scores. They declined, as those who are all talk and no action usually do.
I paid my money to the TBI for a records check and all that shit. The idiot at the sheriff's department couldn't get a decent set of fingerprints that the fuzz would accept. He smashed my fingers down on the card so hard there was nothing but a black blob. So much pressure it actually hurt.
"Here, let me do it myself," I said, rolling on a perfect print. The TBI would have loved it. Hell, the FBI and Interpol would have swooned over it. "See, that's perfect."
"That ain't allowed," the idiot replied. "I have to do it myself 'cause I'm in charge of prints."
So, after three trips over there, I gave up. As the sheriff at the time told me, "Hell, just stick one in your pocket. It's better to be tried by 12 than toted by six." That's a notion I can get behind easily enough.
Next thing I have to buy is a large keyboard, Casio or Yamaha. Gwen had been telling me she played the piano, but I didn't pay much attention. I figured maybe she played it about like I play the guitar. Lots of people claim to "play" instruments when they know just about enough to get in trouble.
But I broke out the little Casio board I have last weekend and she wasn't shitting me -- she plays great. I've screwed with that thing for years and can barely plunk out a little half assed tune on it. She played the fucker like Liberace or somebody and in all styles. Gospel, rock, blues, whatever I mentioned.
Course, I had to break out the guitar and, after a little tuning, we were getting down. And I had to croon a little too, coming across a bit like Leon Russell with terminal throat cancer, or Little Jimmy Dickens with an old cold tater lodged in his windpipe. AND, I can play guitar like Clapton, too -- IF you beat on his fingers with a four-pound shop hammer for an hour beforehand.
What the hell, it's all in fun. If you ever get too old to have fun, might as well lie down and let somebody cover you up.
Fuck 'em. I may be hauling something, but it won't be open and I won't be drinking. And the pistol and cartridges will be in separate compartments. Won't be packing Condition One in my rear pocket as was case last time I was busted. I tried to get a permit years ago, because of anonymous death threats. Somebody left me messages that I was going to "disappear." Said they would grind me up and put me in Big Buck Bottom. And, they mentioned a few things nobody would know if they hadn't been following me. Made a believer out of me. And the chief of police, too. He heard it on answering machine and thought it was serious.
Course, my crime writing offended a lot of people back then. Being threatened wasn't out of the ordinary. A couple time, I invited the "threatener" out to the beer joint parking lot, if they were really intent on settling scores. They declined, as those who are all talk and no action usually do.
I paid my money to the TBI for a records check and all that shit. The idiot at the sheriff's department couldn't get a decent set of fingerprints that the fuzz would accept. He smashed my fingers down on the card so hard there was nothing but a black blob. So much pressure it actually hurt.
"Here, let me do it myself," I said, rolling on a perfect print. The TBI would have loved it. Hell, the FBI and Interpol would have swooned over it. "See, that's perfect."
"That ain't allowed," the idiot replied. "I have to do it myself 'cause I'm in charge of prints."
So, after three trips over there, I gave up. As the sheriff at the time told me, "Hell, just stick one in your pocket. It's better to be tried by 12 than toted by six." That's a notion I can get behind easily enough.
Next thing I have to buy is a large keyboard, Casio or Yamaha. Gwen had been telling me she played the piano, but I didn't pay much attention. I figured maybe she played it about like I play the guitar. Lots of people claim to "play" instruments when they know just about enough to get in trouble.
But I broke out the little Casio board I have last weekend and she wasn't shitting me -- she plays great. I've screwed with that thing for years and can barely plunk out a little half assed tune on it. She played the fucker like Liberace or somebody and in all styles. Gospel, rock, blues, whatever I mentioned.
Course, I had to break out the guitar and, after a little tuning, we were getting down. And I had to croon a little too, coming across a bit like Leon Russell with terminal throat cancer, or Little Jimmy Dickens with an old cold tater lodged in his windpipe. AND, I can play guitar like Clapton, too -- IF you beat on his fingers with a four-pound shop hammer for an hour beforehand.
What the hell, it's all in fun. If you ever get too old to have fun, might as well lie down and let somebody cover you up.
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