This photo looks joyous. In truth, the young lady is surrendering to the inevitable, biding the rain gods to do what they will. The bastards. I don’t like to whine, but–are you kidding me? Less than a month ago, the following article ran in my hometown newspaper. I’ve never met this guy Quigley, but I blame him for what has happened since his little drought warning.
Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.View Archive →