Perhaps. one day, far far in the future, I will not have to work at Bele Chere. That day will be golden, and beautiful, and spent way the fuck out in the woods as far as I can possibly get away from Bele Chere. Because the novelty has worn off: sorry, but I'm tired of being hot and cranky and wanting to strangle tourists because they take half an hour to pick out a $3 mood ring. There's no music I want to see: anyone I like can see almost any weekend for about $5 in far, far more comfortable surroundings (Bele Chere makes the Orange Peel look comfortable, which is saying something) with cheaper, better beer.
Okay, I'll stop being a curmudgeon now and I will point out that the guy with the welded flying pigs is back again this year and I love his work to the point of utter distraction; pink is apparently the new black or puce or mauve but lots of people are wearing it and, since I like pink, that is good and, hey, we had to retire the Spot the Mullet game since, get this, the mullets have finally more or less died out and gone to Haircut Heaven. But it was way too fucking hot today to be cracking geodes in the sun. Young M, however, who worked with me for a couple hours, is an excellent geode cracker and an all around good sport, so he gets mad props or kudos or whatever those kids who should stay off my lawn are saying these hot and cranky days. As does S, who also cracked a shitload of geodes and sold mood rings with a smile.
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Taking Self Pity to a Professional Level
About Me
- mygothlaundry
- Asheville, North Carolina
- In which a forty something single mother of pretty much grown kids and too many dogs attempts to navigate this peculiar thing called life.
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2008
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July
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- If At First You Don't Succeed and all that
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- Ahhh, Time
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- booking through the garden at a high rate of speed
- Stop Chanting; I Don't Get Nice Things
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2 comments:
Ode to a Geode Cracker
It's never too hot to crack geodes in the sun, when cracking geodes is what needs to be done. When cracking geodes is the path to fun.
We've got shitloads of geodes to split apart; cracking geodes is an ancient art.
Crack them geodes until your back is sore, and there ain't no geodes in the store no more.
Crack them geodes, be a geode cracker, not a gem-ophobic geological slacker.
Crack them geodes, crack them good: the geode is one gem that is misunderstood--until it's cracked in half, to reveal its shiny core--yes crack them geodes until your back is sore!
Some folks crack sea urchins, and scoop out their entrails to eat; bit I prefer cracking geodes, I think it's neat. Sure you can't eat 'em, but they're pretty as a star that twinkles on the eyelids of a marmoset seen from afar.
So crack them geodes, they're burning bright. Crack them geodes all day and night.
I've been cracking geodes since I was thirteen; back then they used to call me the geode Queen. Cracked so many geodes I lost track; cracked so many geodes nearly broke my back.
If the world was a geode, it would sparkle and would shine. If the world was a geode it would be cracked up all the time.
But the world's not a geode, no it's not. The world is an eyeball in a jar of snot.
Forget that last line; it was stolen anyway. Back to the geodes, the cracking and the play.
Whoever you are, anonymous, I love you forever and would bear your children if I hadn't decided to give that kind of thing up as a bad idea. Thank you! Your poem rocks and I quite like the eyeball in the jar of snot line. Yes. Yes, I do.
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