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Marbles?

You got any?

I used to have a pretty good collection. Yeah, girls played marbles along side boys in my day. Nobody thought much of it. There was no, “ahh dude, you lost your Aggie to a GIRL?” Thumbs were thumbs.

I like marbles. Ascetically if you know what I mean. They are pretty, or purdy if you so desire.

I wish I had some now. Or some jacks. I miss those games. Boys didn’t play jacks as I recall. Though I have no idea why marbles were not sexually charged, but jacks was.  Metal and rubber versus glass, the answer must lie deep inside the atom.

We have a sidewalk outside our front door, and an overhanging roof, so we drag our chairs out in the morning and sit in the sun until it’s too hot, which is about 7:30 in the morning, give or take an atomic tick of the clock. The sidewalk is cement, ready-made for both jacks or marbles.

The parking lot of the motel is separated from the Savers store by a high cement and rock wall. Along it, there are cinder block  openings set periodically in groups of eight. Is it for water flow? Or a matter of ascetics? I’m figuring it has little to do with presenting a pretty geometric picture to transient travelers.

These are issues that the brain naturally turns to when you are 62 and living in one room with another human beings. I dream of coming upon African animals on sidewalks a lot lately. Wonder what that means?

We eat mostly crap. I mean at the motel. It’s ready made for Twinkies and chocolate covered peanuts. I actually weighed the idea of bringing home a can of Dinty Moore stew yesterday. Yes, it’s come to that.

I’ve been enjoying high-speed internet. Mostly it lets me play games faster. I only went to YouTube once. I found it slightly boring.

What is going on in the John Edwards trial? Those idiots can’t be discussing the facts. I figure they are deeply involved in a high-stakes game of Monopoly and are using “deliberations” as a ruse. John Edwards is the most awful cad I’ve ever seen. So I don’t begrudge them letting him squirm.

I’m at level three of the Mysteries of the Sea (match three) game. I feel rather superior about that. I suppose you think that’s a bit thin, but here at the Motel it places me in a pretty high status.

While I’m at it. I bet John Glenn never thought he would get the Metal of Longevity along side of Bob Dylan. I mean I can’t imagine a conversation between those two. “Know anywhere I can score some weed? Did you see any on the moon?” I know, Bob Dylan knowing who in the hell John Glenn is was shock enough.

Our microwave is bolted to our refrigerator. You don’t find many fine establishments that care enough to make sure you can’t pull it down on yourself. I like that in a motel.

Oh, by the by, I brought a pot of chives from Iowa. I pour out the melted ice water on it each day. It seems happy enough. I wonder if it talks to the marigolds planted next to it. “hey dude, tell me about Iowa–what’s pork like?”

I’m being hogtied into watching some crap called the “Hatfields and McCoys” with awful actor, Kevin Costner of Waterworld unfame. They kill each other a lot. And if you add up both families, the IQ would not be yet on the charts let alone off.

Why do people when they are shot, look up and ask, “am I gonna die?” Unless the guy next to you is a doctor, I’m guessing, you are not going to get a professional opinion.

Speaking of which. There is something very wrong in Amerika. In the last two days, I have read of two naked guys fighting and one guy eating the face off the other. He was killed for that, because he wouldn’t stop. Today another guy stood in front of cops and stabbed himself repeatedly and then through his intestines at the police. I mean really, it’s not even Halloween yet.

Speaking of which, (used that again if you noticed), graveyards in Las Cruces, (or the one I saw) are all dirt. That is sooooo weird.

I am not much to speak ill of people (you mock me?), but I shall not speak poorly of the US Postal Office. I mean, we are what is called General Delivery, which is akin to being a man/woman without a country, but we are getting mail from that two-bit backwater local post office in Walker, Iowa. They must be doing something right.  Talk to me later, I might change my mind. I feel uncomfortable praising people.

Sea food is pretty cheap here. I guess it must be our proximity to the Gulf, which is not all that proximate, but big old fat Texas is large, you have to admit, and minus it, well, we could probably smell the ocean. We don’t eat it of course. I figured shrimp and such doesn’t microwave all that well. And of course we get pecans and pistachios very cheap here. Why? Cuz we raise them. Yes we do. We Las Cruceans are very resourceful.

Oh, dear, it’s time to play solitaire. Such a busy schedule I have. And then a nap, and then read for half an hour, and then get some ice, and then a shower, and then the Hatfields crap and then…why soon I’ll have enough to right a novel. Death of a Salesman Writer on the Orient Sante Fe Express.  Catchy?

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