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On my first trip to a hick town in New Mexico to see my sister and brother-in-law, I spent quite a lot of time being shown the gun collection. Larry had his bullet-making bench set up in his bedroom, and there were a lot of metallic smells wafting out every night. I was raised in the silence of Ipswich, so this bullet exotica was quite off my spectrum.
However, we Brits are superb at the non-judgemental stiff upper lip, so I went out to the desert as men together shooting beer cans in the hot freeze-framed scrubland. I sat impassively on the patio where I was shown the spot where Larry had disposed of a neighbour's cat that had approached the barbecue with a close range single shot. Larry and the other retired USAF 'Nam vets go up to the mountains hunting deer. They'll catch a good one and bring it back to skin and cook on a Sunday.
This is all good. Who am I to condemn? Round here, the most men can do is play in the Brokeback Football League on a Sunday morning because they have no stags to slaughter.
My brother in law would have been equally culture shocked at the pensioners' Christmas party I took our school dancers and choir to to perform Songs For The Lord to yesterday. Hushed British carols with nice tinkles. Very surreal for me, this gig - especially as I am non-religious but like a lovely tune - but I ended up with a fat boy's pensioners' left-overs roast lunch. Wages enough, and my kids did fine.
We went to some fine country and western bars in New Mexico, full of cigar smoke. I was still in the stogie closet with my sister. (Too shy). I just had to put up with the smell - which I find VERY difficult with a good one in the vicinity. Mind you, I think she's twigged from my Facebook that cigars are a major perversion now, but it's the love that dare not speak its name between some blood relatives sometimes.
All the questions... All the explanations... The red faces... The shock...
"Go on! I don't believe you! Smoke one, then! Go on! Show us!".
I treated myself to an hour in a Kwik Fit waiting room in town after work last night for three new tyres to be fitted. I was flicking through the Chat and Take A Break selection (Why no garage-wait porn instead? Simpler on the brain than these crap story-mags that do your nut and Radio 4 penchant in) and came across a bizarre tale of a husband who decided he wanted to be a woman so much that he performed surgery upon himself. Anyway, after the cleaning up in the casualty department, the wife told him he had to leave, and six months later he turned up on the doorstep as a convincing brunette awaiting hip implants.
Just thought I'd free-associate. I'm up with a stinking cold and am depping with a band tonight who are expecting bvs. I think projectile sputum will be the order of the day. No cigar bliss possible in these conditions. I have my Punch Punch to road test, still.
Rhiannon - Make sure you get a special bench in the bedroom to hammer some silver bullets out like Larry.
However, we Brits are superb at the non-judgemental stiff upper lip, so I went out to the desert as men together shooting beer cans in the hot freeze-framed scrubland. I sat impassively on the patio where I was shown the spot where Larry had disposed of a neighbour's cat that had approached the barbecue with a close range single shot. Larry and the other retired USAF 'Nam vets go up to the mountains hunting deer. They'll catch a good one and bring it back to skin and cook on a Sunday.
This is all good. Who am I to condemn? Round here, the most men can do is play in the Brokeback Football League on a Sunday morning because they have no stags to slaughter.
My brother in law would have been equally culture shocked at the pensioners' Christmas party I took our school dancers and choir to to perform Songs For The Lord to yesterday. Hushed British carols with nice tinkles. Very surreal for me, this gig - especially as I am non-religious but like a lovely tune - but I ended up with a fat boy's pensioners' left-overs roast lunch. Wages enough, and my kids did fine.
We went to some fine country and western bars in New Mexico, full of cigar smoke. I was still in the stogie closet with my sister. (Too shy). I just had to put up with the smell - which I find VERY difficult with a good one in the vicinity. Mind you, I think she's twigged from my Facebook that cigars are a major perversion now, but it's the love that dare not speak its name between some blood relatives sometimes.
All the questions... All the explanations... The red faces... The shock...
"Go on! I don't believe you! Smoke one, then! Go on! Show us!".
I treated myself to an hour in a Kwik Fit waiting room in town after work last night for three new tyres to be fitted. I was flicking through the Chat and Take A Break selection (Why no garage-wait porn instead? Simpler on the brain than these crap story-mags that do your nut and Radio 4 penchant in) and came across a bizarre tale of a husband who decided he wanted to be a woman so much that he performed surgery upon himself. Anyway, after the cleaning up in the casualty department, the wife told him he had to leave, and six months later he turned up on the doorstep as a convincing brunette awaiting hip implants.
Just thought I'd free-associate. I'm up with a stinking cold and am depping with a band tonight who are expecting bvs. I think projectile sputum will be the order of the day. No cigar bliss possible in these conditions. I have my Punch Punch to road test, still.
Rhiannon - Make sure you get a special bench in the bedroom to hammer some silver bullets out like Larry.
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