Counting chickens...

Well, hell. We all recall that old "counting chicks before they hatch" thing. It's not a good practice--even if you think something is iron-clad. Sometimes, the trickster monkey gets in the works.

I'm talking about my done publishing deal. I thought it was a done deal. I was wrong obviously. Not going into reasons or whatever, but they deal just didn't fly like it was supposed to. But what the hell; the book will be published anyway, one way or the other. I just need to learn to keep my mouth shut until things are a fait accompli, eh.

The woman is still in the hospital, in Nashville. A problem with heart valves, which has been at least partially corrected. A problem with a doctor having one on too much medication, which is now being corrected. I'm not sure how much longer she'll be there, probably a week or two. I talk to her about every day, though I told her yesterday I was going to have to change that to every other simply because of expenses involved with such long distance shit. Sad fact of life.

Fucking lawn mower almost killed me a couple times since I last reported in. Saved by nitro and a plastic bag to breathe in. Panic city. My brother Edd was mowing it when I came in from store last Friday. Told me to keep my ass away from mower, to which I heartily agreed. No wind power left, none for any real physical exertion. It's a damned shame to get old and worn out, but it happens to all of us eventually.

What the hell, cool, gloomy weather. And more storms in the forecast for the upcoming weekend. Tornado season has been delayed somewhat this year. But it seems to be making up for it now.

If not one thing, then the other

Girlfriend is in Nashville hospital. She went home yesterday for a few hours to conduct some business and had a medical problem arise. A stroke or seizure or something of that nature. She was with her cousin at the time. Taken to Camden General and then transferred to Centennial in Nashville. I've talked to her three times, latest couple hours ago, and she seems to be much better. But tests and all that shit. Don't know if I'll go up or not, just depends on how things continue to unfold.

Hell, I'm almost disabled myself. Tried to mow yard yesterday and had breathing/heart episodes that had me taking nitro twice. Fuck it, just fading away it seems. If' I'd dreamed I'd live this long, I would have taken better care of myself. Didn't, and didn't.

Book? Some sort of problem with the printing company apparently. Not sure what. Not going to worry about it at this point. Whatever. It will happen when it happens.

Getting close

Getting close to publishing the book Murder Along the Midnight Road (subtitle: The death of Dennis Brooks, Jr.). Going down this afternoon to go over final details on royalty, distribution, promotion, cover. From the looks of things (and if it sells like it might) I could wind up making a few bucks this time around. All I can say to that is, it's about time.

Been on the wagon since last Sunday, nary a drop of anything. I'd like to be able to report that I've seen some great benefit in the way I feel, but that's just not true; indeed, I felt physically better when I was drinking every day. And, making no great commitment to lay off the sauce permanently. Hell, I may have a drink before the day's over, if I decide I want one. But I just haven't wanted one lately. That is bound to change.

Beautiful day, with a week more of them in the forecast. This after an overnight low in the mid 30s. I still haven't gone fishing, but hopefully in the coming week can work in some time to dip a hook.

No company at the present time -- we decided to wait until next weekend, then she can come over and stay a while. She loves to fish (says she baits her own hook and takes her own fish off), so I may have a built-in fishing buddy.

We do talk on the phone every day. Sometimes twice. I'm somewhat torn between this love I have for solitude and the enjoyment I get from company of the opposite sex.

If push comes to shove, I'll probably take the company.

If it weren't for bad luck...

Got into the old ride yesterday to leave Camden and noticed that the small rock blip in the windshield had turned into a crack about 8 inches long. Dammit. I didn't see when it happened, but I suspect driving through a deep drain groove just inside the apartment complex driveway did the damage. Anyway, I eased through it coming out and managed to avoid most potholes on the way home, because another good rack of the frame might cause the whole damned thing to pop out.

Now, I'm debating whether I should go to a junkyard and try to find one and then fight the physical battle of trying to get the son of a bitch in and sealed good, or just hire a windshield outfit to come replace it; I think the latter would cost about $250 judging by some Google research. I could probably get a junkyard replacement for $50 or so.

I'm not going to do either one right at the moment. I stuck a piece of transparent Scotch packaging tape on the inside that will do for the time being. Course, the crack is long enough to be illegal, but it's real fine and not noticeable at all unless you're up close to it, so I don't think a passing cop would spot it.

Nice Easter weekend otherwise. I got hammered Saturday. Must have been a positive thing, because I didn't have a drop yesterday and don't plan on having one today.

When I get out on a sidewalk preaching to people I don't even know (or hell, KNOW for that matter), you gotta figure I've gone around the bend on the sauce. What the hell, had a great conversation with some black dude, who seemed to dig what I was laying down.

Jeez. Maybe I should change my name to Billy Graham Cracker. Start a TV ministry. Buy myself a Rolex and a Rolls Royce.

Nah.

When the house is rockin

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.